The Plays Of Oscar Wilde

TigHt (Binding (Boo^Jind (Pa^es
Missing ‘Within

UNIVERSAL

LIBRARY

OU 210211

UNIVERSAL

LIBRARY

Osmania University

Accession

La ](>1 P

pis book should be returned on or before the date
last marked below.

OSCAR WILDE

* BONIBOOKS *

THE

PLAYS OF
OSCAR
WILDE

☆

☆ ALBERT 6? CHARLES BONI ☆

DECORATIONS AND TYPES
SPECIALLY DESIGNED

BY

FREDERIC W. GOIIDY

COPIRIGHT, 1914, BY COSMOPOUTAN
BOOK CORPORATION

The Duchess of Padua

COPYlClGUr, 1907,
BY METIJUEX

Tlie Duchess of Padua, appearing in this
volume, is published by permission of and
through special arrangement with Messrs.
Methuen of London.

E'irst isiiucd in Bonihooks Scries,
September, 1935

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 07 AMERICA
BY THE CORNWALL PRESS, INC.

CONTENTS

FAOa

LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN 1

Act I 7

II 29

III 52

IV 70

A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE .... 89

Act I 93

II 116

in 145

IV . 167

IHE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST . . 191

Act I 197

II 229

III 268

AN IDEAL HUSBAND 289

Act I 295

II 335

III 372

IV 402

▼

▼i CONTENTS

PAoa

VERA; OB, THE NIHILISTS 429

Prologue 433

Act I 443

II 462

III 484

IV 501

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA 513

Act I 519

II 536

III 560

IV 578

V 601

SALOMfi 619

LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

The acting rights to “ Lady Windermere’s Fan ” are
hdd by Mr. Charles Frohman, Empire Theatre Building,
New York City, to whom application must be made Jot
the right to perform cither by amateurs or professionals.

To

<X)UNTESS UE GREY

LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

London: St. James’s Theatre: Lessee and Manager,
Mr. George Alexander, February 22nd, 1892.

Characters

LORD WINDERMERE Mr. George Alexander

LORD DARLINGTON Mr. Nutcombe Gould

LORD AUGUSTUS LORTON Mr. H. H. Vincent

MR. CECIL GRAHAM Mr. Ben Webster

MR. DUMBY Mr. Vane-Tempest

MR. HOPPER Mr. Alfred Hollis

PARKER (Butler) Mr. V. Sansbury

LADY WINDERMERE Miss Lily Hanbury

THE DUCHESS OF berwickMIss Fanny Coleman
LADY AGATHA CARLISLE Miss Laura Graves
LADY PLYMDALE Miss Granville

LADY JEDBURGH Miss B. Page

LADY STUTFiELD Miss Madge Girdlestone

MBS. cowPER-cowPER Miss A. De Winton
MRS. ERLYNNE Miss Marion Terry

ROSALIE (Maid) Miss Winifred Dolan

The Scenes of the Play
Act I Morning-room in Lord Windermere’s
House.

Act II Drawing-room in Lord Windermere’s
House.

Act III Lord Darlington’s rooms.

Act IV Same as Act 1.

Time — The Present.

Place — London,

The Action of the Play takes place within
twenty-four hours, beginning on a Tuesday
afternoon at five o’clock, and ending the
next day at 1 30 p. m.

s

LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

ACT I

Scene — Morning-room of lord Windermere’s
house in Carlton House Terrace. Doors c. and E.
Bureau ivith books and papers R. Sofa mlh small
tea-table L. Window opening on to terrace l.
Table r.

[lady WINDERMERE is at table R. Arranging roses
in a blue bowl.]

[Enter Parker.]

PARKER. Is your ladyship at home this after-
noon?

LADY w. Yes — who has called?

PARKER. Lord Darlington, my lady.

LADY w. [Hesitates for a moment]. Show him up
— and I’m at home to any one who calls.

PARKER. Yes, my lady. [Exit c.j

LADY w. It’s best for me to see him before to-
night. I’m glad he’s come.

[Enter Parker c.]

PARKER. Lord Darlington.

[Enter lord d. c. Exit Parker.]

LORD D. How do you do, Lady Windermere?
LADY w. How do you do, Lord Darlington?
No, I can’t shake hands with you. My hands are
all wet with these roses. Aren’t they lovely?
They came up from Selby this morning.

t

8

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORD D. They are quite perfect. [.Sees a fan
lying on the table.] And what a wonderful fan!
May I look at it?

LADY w. Do. Pretty, isn't it! It's got my
name on it, and everything. I have only just seen
it myself. It's iny husband's birthday present to
me. You know to-day is my birthday?

LORD D. No? Is it really?

LADY w. Yes; I'm of age to-day. Quite an im-
portant day in my life, isn’t it? That is why I am
giving this party to-night. Do sit down. [Still ar-
ranging flowers.]

LORD D. [Sitting dotvn]. I wish I had known it
was your birthday, Lady Windermere. I would;
have covered the whole street in front of your
house with flowers for you to w^alk on. They ar*
made for you. [A short pause.]

LADY w. Lord Darlington, you annoyed me last
night at the Foreign Office. I am afraid you are
going to annoy me again.

LORD D. I, Lady Windermere?

[Enter Parker and footman c. with tray and tea-
things.]

LADY w. Put it there, Parker. That will do.
[Wipes her hands with her pocket-handkerchief, goes
to tea-table L. and sits down.] Won't you come over,
lA^)rd Darlington?

[Exeunt Parker and footman c.]

LORD D. [Takes chair and goes across L. c.] I am
quite miserable, Lady Windermere. Y ou must tell
me what I did. [Sits down at table L.]

lady w. Well, you kept paying me elaborate
compliments the whole evening.

ACT i] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

9

LORD D. [Smiling]. Ah, now-a-days weareall of us
so hard up, that the onlypleasant things to pay ore
compliments. They’re the only things we can pay.

LADY w. [Shaking her head]. No, I am talking
very seriously. You mustn’t laugh, I am quite
serious. I don’t like compliments, and I don’t see,
why a man should think he is pleasing a woman
enormously when he says to her a whole heap of
things that he doesn’t mean. J

LORD D. Ah, but I did mean them. [Takes lea
which she offers him.]

LuVDY w. [Gravely]. I hope not. I should be
sorry to have to quarrel with you. Lord Darling-
ton. I like you very much, you know that. But
I shouldn’t like you at all if I thought you were
what most other men are. Believe me, you are
better than most other men, and I sometimes
think you pretend to be worse.

LORD D. We all have our little vanities. Lady
Windermere.

LADY w. Why do you make that your special
one? [Still sealed at table l.]

LORD D. [Still scaled l. c.]. Oh, now-a-days so
many conceited people go about Society pretend-
ing to be good, that I think it shows rather a sweet
and modest disposition to pretend to be bad. Be-
sides, there is this to be said. If you pretend to be
good, the world takes you very seriously. If you
pretend to be bad, it doesn’t. Such is the astound-
ing stupidity of optimism.

LADY w. Don’t you ward the world to take you
beriously then, Lord Darlington?

10

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORDD. No, not the world. Who are the people
the world takes seriously? All the dull people one
can think of, from the Bishops down to the bores.
I should like you to take me very seriously. Lady
Windermere, you more than anyone else in life.

LADY w. Why — why me?

LORD D. [After a slight hesitation]. Because I
think we might be great friends. Let us be great
friends. You may want a friend some day.

LADY w. Why do you say that?

LORD D. Oh ! — we all want friends at times, j

LADY w. I think we’re very good friends al-
ready, Lord Darlington. We can always remain
so as long as you don’t

LORD D. Don’t what?

LADY w. Don’t spoil it by saying extravagant,
silly things to me. You think I am a Puritan, I
suppose? Well, I have something of the Puritan
in me. I was brought up like that. I am glad of
it. My mother died when I was a mere child. I
lived always with Lady Julia, my father’s eldest
sister, you know. She was stem to me,, bujt she
taught me, what the world is forgetting, the diffeti
race that there is between what is right and wlmt
i£wrong._ She allowed of no compromise. I afiow
of none.

LORDD. My dear Lady Windermere!

LADY w. [Leaning back on the sofa]. You look
on me as being behind the age. — Well, I am! I
should be sorry to be on the same level as an age
like this.

LORD D. You think the age very bad?

ACT 1] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

11

LADY w. Yes. Now-a-days people seem to look
on life as a speculation. It is not a speculation.
It is a sacrament. Its ideal is Love. Its purifica-
tion is sacrifice.

LORD D. [Smiling]. Oh, anything is better than
being sacrificed!

LADYW. [Leaning forward]. Don’t say that.

LORD D. I do say it. I feel it — I know it.

[Enter Parker c.]

PARKER. The men want to know if they arc to
put the carpets on the terrace for to-night, my
lady?

LADY w. You don’t think it will rain, Lord Dar-
lington, do you?

LORD D. I won’t hear of its raining on your
birthday!

LADY, w. Tell them to do it at once, Parker.

[Exit PARKER C.]

LORD D. [Still seated]. Do you think then — of
course I am only putting an imaginary instance —
do you think, that in the case of a young married
couple, say about two years married, if the husband
suddenly becomes the intimate friend of a woman
of — well, more than doubtful character, is always
calling upon her, lunching with her, and probably
paying her bills — do you think that the wife
should not console herself ?

LADY w. [Fr aiming]. Console herself?

LORD D. Yes, I think she should — I think she
has the right.

LADY w. Because the husband is vile — should
the wife be vile also?

12

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORD D. Vileness is a terrible word. Lady Win-
dermere.

LADY w. It is a terrible thing, Lord Darlington.

LORD D. Do you know I am afraid that good
people do a great deal of harm in this world. (Cer-
tainly the greatest harm they do is that they make
badness of such extraordinary importance. It is
absurd to divide people into good and bad. Peo-
ple are cither cliarming or tedious. I take the side
of the charming, and you. Lady Windermere,
can’t help belonging to them.')^

LADY w. Now, Lord Darlington. [Rismg and
crossing R., front of him.] Don’t stir, I am merely
going to finish my flowers. [Goes to table R. c.]

LORD D. [Rising and moving chair]. And I must
say I think you are veiy hard on modem life. Lady
Windermere. Of course there is much against it,
I admit. Most women, for instance, now-a-days,
are rather mcrcenarj-.

LADY w. "Don’t talk about such people.

LORD D. Well, then, setting mercenary people
aside, who, of course, are dreadful, do you think
seriously that women who have committed what
the world calls a fault should never be forgiven?

LADY w. [Standing at table]. I think they should
never be forgiven.

LORD D. And me? Do you think that there
should be the same laws for men as there are for
women?

LADY w. Certainly!

LORD D. I think life too complex a thing to be
settled by these hard and fast rules.

ACT l]

LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

13

LADY w. If we had “these hard and fast rules,”
we should find life much more simple.

LORD D. You allow of no exceptions?

LADY w. None!

LORD D. Ah, what a fascinating Puritan you are,
Jjady Windermere!

LADY w. The adjective was unnecessary. Lord
Darlington.

LORD D. I couldn’t help it. I can resist every-
thing except temptation.

LADY w. You have the modem affectation of
weakness.

LORD D. [Looking al Ivr]. It’s only an affecta-
tion, I^ady Windermere.

[Enter Parker c.]

PARKER. The Duclicss of Berwick and Lady
Agatha Carlisle.

[Enter the duchess of b. and lady a. c. c.]

[Exit PARKER C.]

DUCHESS OF B. [Coming down c. and shaking
hands]. Dear Margaret, I am so pleased to see
you. You remember Agatha, don’t you? [Cross-
ing L. c.j How do you do. Lord Darlington? I
won’t let you know my daughter, you are far too
wicked.

LORD D. Don’t say that. Duchess. As a wicked
jnan I am a complete failure. Why, there are lots
of people who say I have never really done any-
thing wrong in the whole course of my life. Of
course they only say it behind my back.

DUCHESS OF B. Isn’t he dreadful? Agatha, this

14

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act t

is Lord Darlington. Mind you don’t believe a
word he says, [lord Darlington crosses r. c.]
No, no tea, thank you, dear. [Crosses and sits on
sofa.] We have just had tea at Lady Markby’s.
Such bad tea, too. It was quite undrinkable. I
wasn’t at all surprised. Her own son-in-law sup-
plies it. Agatha is looking forward so much to
your ball to-night, dear Margaret.

LADY w. [Sealed h. c.]. Oh, you mustn’t think
it is going to be a ball. Duchess. It is only a dance
in honor of my birthday. A small and early.

lord d. [Slandi7ig l. c.]. Very small, very
early, and very select. Duchess.

DUCHESS OF B. [On sofa L.]. Of course it’s going
to be select. But we know that, dear Margaret,
about your house. It is really one of the few houses
in London where I can take Agatha, and where I
feel perfectly secure about poor Berwick. I don’t
know what Society is coming to. 'The most
dreadful people seem to go everywhere. They
certainly come to my parties — the men get quite
furious if one doesn’t ask them. Really, some one
should make a stand against it.

LADY w. / will. Duchess. I will have no one in
my house about whom there is any scandal.

LORD D. [r. c.]. Oh, don’t say that, Lady Win-
dermere. I should never be admitted! [Sitting.]
DUCHESS OF B. Oh, men don’t matter. With
women it is different. We’re good. Some of us are,
atleast. But we are positively getting elbowed into
the corner. Our husbands would really forget our
existence if we didn’t nag at them from time to

ACT I] LADY WINDERMERE^S FAN

15

time, just to remind them that we have a perfect
legal right to do so.

LORD D. It’s a curious thing, Duchess, about
the game of marriage — a game, by the way, that is
going out of fashion — the wives hold all the hon-
ours, and invariably lose the odd trick.

DUCHESS OF B. The odd trick? Is that the hus-
band, Lord Darlington?

LORD D. It would be rather a good name for the
modem husband.

DUCHESS OF B. Dear Lord Darlington, how
thoroughly depraved you are!

LADY w. Lord Darlington is trivial.

LORD D. Ah, don’t say that, Lady Windermere.

LADY w. Why do you talk so trivially about
life, then?

LORD D. Because I think that life is far too im-
portant a thing ever to talk seriously about it.
[Maoes up c.]

DUCHESS OF B. Wliat does he mean? Do, as a
concession to my poor wits, Lord Darlington, just
explain to me what you really mean?

LORD D. [Coming down hack of table], 1 think I
had better not. Duchess. Now-a-days to be intel-
ligible is to be found out. Good-bye! [Shakes
hands with duchess.] And now [Goes up stage],
Lady Windermere, good-bye. I may come to-
night, mayn’t I? Do let me come.

LADY w. [Standing up stage with lord d.]. Yes,
certainly. But you are not to say foolish insincere
things to people.

lord d. [Smiling], Ah! you are beginning to

16

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

reform me. It is a dangerous thing to reform any
one, Lady Windermere. [Bows, and exit c.]
DUCHESS OF B. [Who has risen, goes c.]. What a
charming, wicked creature ! I like him so much.
I’m quite delighted he’s gone! How sweet you’re
looking! Where do you get your gowns? And
now I must tell you how sorry' I am for you, dear
Margaret. [Crosses to sofa and sits with lady w.]
Agatha, darling!

LADY A. Yes, mamma, [fiises.]

DUCHESS OF B. Will you go and look over the
photograph album that I sec there?

LADY A. Yes, mamma. [Goes to table L.]
DUCHESS OF B. Dear girl! She is so fond of
photographs of Switzerland. Such a pure taste, I
think. But I really am so sony for you, Margaret.
L.^^DY w. [Smilmg]. Why, Duchess?

DUCHESS OF B. Oh, on account of that horrid
woman. She dresses so well, too, which makes it
much worse, sets such a dreadful example.
Augustus— you know my disreputable brother —
such a trial to us all — well, Augustus is completely
infatuated about her. It is quite scandalous, for
she is absolutely inadmissible into society. Many
a woman has a past, but I am told that she has at
least a dozen, and that they all fit.

LADY w. Whom are you talking about. Duchess.
DUCHESS OF B. About Mrs. Erlynne.

LADY w. Mrs. Erlynne? I never heard of her.
Duchess. And what has she to do with me?
DUCHESS OF B. My poor child ! Agatha, darling!
LADY A. Yes, mamma.

ACT I] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

17

DUCHESS OF B. Will you go out on the terrace
and look at the sunset?

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

[Eiil through window l.]

DUCHESS OF B. Sweet gif 1! So devoted to sun-
sets! Shows such refinement of feeling, does it
not? After all, there is nothing like nature, is
there?

LADY w. But what is it, Duehess? Why do you
talk to me about this person?

DUCHESS OF B. Don’t you really know? I as-
sure you we’re all so distressed about it. Only last
night at dear Lady Fansen’s every one was saying
how extraordinary it was that, of all men in Lon-
don, Windermere should behave in such a way.

LADY w. My husband — what has he got to do
with any woman of that kind?

DUCHESS OF B. Ah, what indeed, dear? That is
the point. He goes to see her continually, and
stops for hours at a time, and while he is there she
is not at home to any one. Not that many ladies
call on her, dear, but she has a great many dis-
reputable men friends — my own brother in par-
ticular, as I told you — and that is what makes it so
dreadful about Windermere. We looked upon him
as being such a model husband, but I am afraid
there is no doubt about it. My dear nieces — ^you
know the Saville girls, don’t you? — such nice do-
mestic creatures — plain, dreadfully plain, but so
good — ^wcll, they're always at the window doing
fancy work, and making ugly things for the poor,
which I think so useful of them in these dreadful

18

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

socialistic days, and this terrible woman has taken
a house in Curzon Street, right opposite them —
such a respectable street, too. I don’t know what
we’re coming to ! And they tell me that Winder-
mere goes there four and five times a week — they
see him. They can’t help it — and although they
never talk^can^l, they — well, of course — they re-
mark on it to every one. And the worst of it all
is, that I have been told that this woman has got
a great deal of money out of somebody, for it seems
that she came to London six months ago without
anything at all to speak of, and now she has this
charming house in Mayfair, drives her pony in the
Park every afternoon, and all — well all — since she
has known poor dear Windermere.

LADY w. Oh, I can’t believe it!

DUCHESS OF B. But it’s quite true, my dear.
The whole of London knows it. That is why I felt
it was better to come and talk to you, and advise
you to take Windermere away at once to Hom-
burg or to Aix, where he’ll have something to
amuse him, and where you can watch him all day
long. I assure you, my dear, that on several occa-
sions after I was first married I had to pretend to
be very ill, and was obliged to drink the most un-
pleasant mineral waters, merely to get Berwick
out of town. He was so extremely i|usceptiblg*
Though I am bound to say he never gave away
any large sums of money to anybody. He is far
joo high-principled for that.

LADY w. [Interrupting], Duchess, Duchess, it’s
impossible! [Rising and aossing stage c.] We are

ACT I] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

19

only married two years. Our child is but six
months old. [Sits in chair r. of l. table.]

DUCHESS OF B. Ah, the dear pretty baby ! How
is the little darling? Is it a boy or a girl? I hope a
girl — Ah, no, I remember it’s a boy ! I’m so sorry.
Boys are so wicked. My boy is excessively im-
moral. You wouldn’t believe at what hours he
comes home. And he’s only left Oxford a few
months — I really don’t know what they teach
them there.

LADY w. Are all men bad?

DUCHESS OF B. Oh, all of them, my dear, all of
them, without any exception. And they never
grow any better. Men become old, but they
never become good.

LADY w. Windermere and I married for love.

DUCHESS OF B. Yes, we begin like that. It was
only Berwick’s brutal and incessant threats of
suicide that made me accept him at all, and before
the year was out he was running after all kinds of
petticoats, every color, every shape, every mate-
rial. In fact, before the honeymoon was over, I
caught him winking at my maid, a most pretty,
respectable girl. I dismissed her at once without
a character. — No, I remember I passed her on to
my sister; poor dear Sir George is so short-sighted,
I thought it wouldn’t matter. But it did, though
it was most unfortimate. [Bises.] And now, my
dear child, I must go, as we are dining out. And
mind you don’t take this little aberration of Win-
dermere’s too much to heart. Just take him
abroad, and he’U come back to you all right.

20

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act i

LADT w. Come back to me? [c.]

DUCHESS OF B. [l. c.]. Yes, dear, these wicked
women get our husbands away from us, but they
always come back, slightly damaged, of course.
And don’t make scenes, men hate them!

LADY w. It is very kind of you. Duchess, to
come and tell me all this. But I can’t believe that
my husband is untrue to me.

DUCHESS OF B. Pretty child! I was like that
once. Now I know that all men are monsters.
[lady w. rings bell]. The only thing to do is to
feed the wretches well. A good cook does won-
ders, and that I know you have. My dear Mar-
garet, you are not going to cry?

LADY w. You needn’t be afraid. Duchess, I
never cry.

DUCHESS OF B. That’s quite right, dear. Crying
is the refuge of plain women, but the ruin of
pretty ones. Agatha, darling!

LADY A. [Entering L.]. Yes, mamma. [StoTids
back of table l. c.]

DUCHESS OF B. Come and bid good-bye to Lady
Windermere, and thank her for your charming
visit. [Coming down again.] And by the way, I
must thank you for sending a card to Mr. Hop-
per — he’s that rich young Australian people are
taking such notice of just at present. His father
made a great fortune by selling some kind of food
in circular tins — most palatable, I believe — I
fancy it is the thing the servants always refuse to
eat. But the son is quite interesting. I think he’s
attracted by dear Agatha’s clever talk. Of course,

ACT I] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

21

we should be very sorry to lose her, but I think
that a mother who doesn’t part with a daughter
every season has no real affection. We’re coming
to-night, dear, [parker opens c. doors.] And re-
member my advice, take the poor fellow out of
town at once, it is the only thing to do. Good-
bye, once more; come, Agatha. [Exeunt duchess
and LADY A. c.]

LADYW. How horrible! I understand now what
Lord Darlington meant by the im^inary instance
of the couple not two years married. Oh! it can’t
be true — she spoke of enormous sums of money
paid to this woman. I know where Arthur keeps
his bank book — in one of the drawers of that desk.
I might find out by that. 1 mil find out. [Opens
drawer.] No, it is some hideous mistake, [/iises
and goes c.]. Some silly scandal! He loves me!
He loves me! But why should I not look? I am
his wife, I have a right to look ! [Returns to bureau,
takes out book and examines it, page by page, smiles
and gives a sigh of relief.] I knew it, there is not a
word of truth in this stupid story. [Puls book back
in drawer. As she does so, starts and takes out
another book]. A second book — private — ^locked!
[Tries to open it, but fails. Sees paper knife on
bureau, and with it cuts cover from book. Begins to
start at the first page.] Mrs. Erlynne — £600 —
Mrs. Erlynne — £700 — Mrs. Erlynne — £400. Oh!
it is true! it is true! How horrible! [Throws book
on floor.]

[Enter lord w. c.]

LORD w. Well, dear, has the fan been sent home

22

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

yet? [Going b. c. sees book.] Margaret, you have
cut open my bank book. You have no right to do
such a thing!

LADY w. You think it wrong that you are found
out, don’t you?

LORD w. I thmk it wrong that a wife should
spy on her husband.

LADY w. I did not spy on you. I never knew of
this woman’s existence till half an hour ago.
Some one who pitied me was kind enough to tell
me what every one in London knows already —
your daily visits to Curzon Street, your mad in-
fatuation, the monstrous sums of money you
squander on this infamous woman ! [Crossing L.]

LORD w. Margaret, don’t talk like that of Mrs.
Erlynne, you don't know how unjust it is!

LADY w. [Turning to him]. You are very
jealous of Mrs. Erlynne’s honour. I wish you
had been as jealous of mine.

LORD w. Your honour is untouched, Margaret.

You don’t think for a moment that [puis book

back into desk.]

LADY w. I think that you spend your money
strangely. That is all. Oh, don’t imagine I mind
about the money. As far as I am concerned, you
may squander everything we have. But what I do
mind is that you who have loved me, you who have
taught me to love you, should pass from the love
that is given to the love that is bought. Oh, it’s
horrible! [Sits on sofa.] And it is I who feel de-
graded. You don’t feel anything. I feel stained,
utterly stained. You can’t realise how hideous the

ACT i] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

23

last six months seem to me now — every kiss you
have given me is tainted in my memory.

LORD w. [Crossing to her]. Don’t say that,
Mai^aret, I never loved any one in the whole
world but you.

LADY w. [i??scs]. Who is this woman, then?
Why do you take a house for her?

LORD w. I did not take a house for her.

LADY w. You gave her the money to do it,
which is the same thing.

LORD w. Margaret, as far as I have known
Mrs. Erlynne

Ll:VDY w. Is there a Mr. Erlynne — or is he a
myth?

» LORD w. Her husband died many years ago.
She is alone in the world.

LADi-w. No relations? [A pause.]

LORD w. None.

LADY w. Rather curious, isn’t it? [l.]

LORD w. [l. c.] Margaret, I was saying to you
— and I beg you to listen to me — that as far as I
have known Mrs. Erlynne, she has conducted
herself well. If years ago

LADY w. Oh! [Crossing r. c.]. I don’t want
details about her life.

LORD w. lam not going to give you any details
about her life. I tell you simply this — Mrs.
Erlynne was once honoured, loved, respected.
She was well born, she had a position — she lost
eveiything — threw it away, if you like. That
makes it all the more bitter. Misfortunes one can
endure — ^they come from outside, they are acci-

24

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

dents. But to suffer for one’s own faults — ah!
there is the sting of life. It was twenty years ago,
too. She was little more than a girl then. She
had been a wife for even less time than you have.

LADY w. I am not interested in her — and — ^you
should not mention this woman and me in the
same breath. It is an error of taste. [Sitting b. at
desk.]

LORD w. Margaret, you could save this woman.
She wants to get back into society, and she wants
you to help her. [Crossing to her.]

LADY w. Me!

LORD w. Yes, you.

LADYW. How impertinent of her! [A pause.]

LORD w. Margaret, I came to ask you a great
favour, and I still ask it of you, though ycm have
discovered what I had intended you shoul^ never
have known, that I have given Mrs. Eiiynne a
large sum of money. I want you to send her an
invitation for our party to-night. [Standing L.
of her.]

LADY w. You are mad. [Rises.]

LORD w. I entreat you. People may chatter
about her, do chatter about her, of course, but
they don’t know anything definite against her.
She has been to several houses — not to houses
where you would go, I admit, but still to houses
where women who are in what is called Society
now-a-days do go. That does not content her.
She wants you to receive her once.

LADY w. As a triumph for her, I suppose?

LORD w. No; but because she knows that you

act i] lady WINDERMERE’S FAN

25

are a good woman — and that if she comes here
once she will have a chance of a happier, a surer
life, than she has had. She will make no further
effort to know you. Won’t you help a woman who
is trying to get back?

LADY w. No! If a woman really repents, she
never wishes to return to the society that has made
or seen her ruin.

LORD w. I beg of you.

LADY w. [Crossing to door K.]. 1 am going to
dress for dinner, and don’t mention the subject
again this evening. Arthur [going to him c.], you
fancy because I have no father or mother that I
am alone in the world and that you can treat me
as you choose. You are wrong, I have friends,
many friends.

LORD w. [l. c.]. Margaret, you are talking
foolishly, recklessly. I won’t argue with you, but
I insist upon your asking Mrs. Erlynne to-night.

LADY w. [r. c.]. I shall do nothing of the kind.
[Crossing L. c.]

LORD w. You refuse? [c.]

LADY w. Absolutely!

LORD w. Ah, Margaret, do this for my sake;
it is her last chance.

LADY w. What has that to do with me?

LORD w. How hard good women are! \

LADY w. How weak bad men are! \

LORD w. Marigaret, none of us men may be
good enough for the women we marry — that is
quite true — ^but j’ou don’t imagine I would ever —
oh, the suggestion is monstrous!

26

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act r

LADY w. Why should you be different from
other men? I am told that there is hardly a hus-
band in London who does not waste his life over
some shameful passion.

LORD w. I am not one of them
LADY w. I am not sm'e of that!

LORD w. Y ou are sure in your heart. But don’t
make chasm after chasm between us. God knows
the last few minutes have thrust us wide enough
apart. Sit down and write the eard.

LADY w. Nothing in the whole world would in-
duce me.

LORD w. [Crossing io the bureau]. Then I will.
[Rings electric bell, sits and mites card.]

LADY w. You are going to invite this woman?
[Crossing to him.]

LORD w. Yes. [Pause.]

[Enter Parker.]

LORD w. Parker I

PARKER. Yes, my lord. [Comes down l. c.]
LORD w. Have this note sent to Mrs. Erlynne
at No. 84a Curzon Street. [Crossing to l. c. and
giving note to Parker.] There is no answer.

[Exit PARKER c.]
LADY w. Arthur, if that woman comes here, I
shall insult her.

LORD w. Margaret, don’t say that.

LADY w. I mean it.

LORD w. Child, if you did such a thing, there’s
not a woman in London who wouldn’t pity you.

LADY w. There is not a good woman in London
who would not applaud me. We have been too

ACT 1] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN 27

lax. We must make an example. I propose to
begin to-night. [Picking up fan.] Yes, you gave
me this fan to-day; it was your birthday present.
If that woman crosses my threshold, I shall strike
her across the face with it.

LORD w. Margaret, you couldn’t do such a
thing.

LADY w. You don’t know me! [Mores e.]

[Enter paeker.]

Parker!

PARKER. Yes, my lady.

LADY w. I shall dine in my own room. I don’t
want dinner, in fact. See that everything is
ready by half-past ten. And, Parker, be sure you
pronounce the names of the guests very distinctly
to-night. Sometimes you speak so fast that I miss
them. I am particularly anxious to hear the names
quite clearly, so as to make no mistake. You un-
derstand, Parker?

PARKER. Yes, my lady.

LADY w. That will do! [Exit Parker c.]
[Speaking to lord w.] Arthur, if that woman
comes here — I warn you

LORD w. Margaret, you’ll ruin us!

LADY w. Us! From this moment my life is
separate from yours. But if you wish to avoid a
public scandal, write at once to this woman, and
tell her that I forbid her to come here!

LORD w. I will not — I cannot — she must come !

LADY w. Then I shall do exactly as I have said.
[Goes R.] You leave me no choice. [Exit e.]

LORD w. [Calling after her]. Margaret! Mar-

28

THE PLAYS OF OSCAE WILDE [act i

garet! [A pause.] My God! What shall I do! I
dare not tell her who this woman really is. The
shame would kill her. [Sinks doum into a chair
and buries his face in his hands.]

Act-dbop

ACT II

Scene — Drawing-room in lord w’s house. Door
R. XT. opening into ball-room, where band is play-
ing. Door L. through which guests are entering.
Door L. XT. opens on an illuminated terrace.
Palms, flowers, and brilliant lights. Room
crowded tvith guests, lady w. is receiving them.

DUCHESS OF B. [Up c.]. So strange Lord Win-
dermere isn’t here. Mr. Hopper is very late, too.
You have kept those five dances for him, Agatha!
[Comes doum.]

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. [Silting ou sof a]. Just let me see
your card. I’m so glad Lady Windermere has
revived cards. — They’re a mother’s only safe-
guard. You dear simple little thing! [Scratches
out two names.] No nice girl should ever waltz
with such particularly younger sons! It looks so
fast! The last two dances you must pass on the
terrace with Mr. Hopper.

[Enter MR. dumby and lady plymdale from the
ball-room.]

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. [Fanning herself]. The air is so
pleasant there.

PARKER. Mrs. Cowper-Coxvper. Lady Stut-
field. Sir James Royston. Mr. Guy Berkeley.

29

30

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE |act n

{These people enter as announced.]

DUMBY. Good evening, Lady Stutfield. I sup-
pose this will be the last ball of the season?

LADY s. I suppose so, Mr. Dumby. It’s been a
delightful season, hasn’t it?

DXJMBY. Quite delightful! Good evening.
Duchess. I suppose this will be the last ball of the
season?

DUCHESS OF B. I suppose SO, Mr. Dumby. It
has been a very dull season, hasn’t it?

DUMBY. Dreadfully dull! Dreadfully dull!

MRS. c.-c. Good evening, Mr. Dumby. I sup-
pose this will be the last ball of the season?

DUMBY. Oh, I think not. There’ll probably be
two more. [Wanders back to lady p.]

PARKER. Mr. Rufford. Lady Jedburgh and
Miss Graham. Mr. Hopper.

[These people enter as announced.]

HOPPER. How do you do. Lady Windermere?
How do you do. Duchess? [Bows to lady a.]

DUCHESS OP B. Dear Mr. Hopper, how nice of
you to come so early. We all know how you are
run after in London.

HOPPER. Capital place, London! They are not
nearly so exclusive in London as they are in
Sydney.

DUCHESS OF B. Ah! we know your value, Mr.
Hopper. We wish there were more like you. It
would make life so much easier. Do you know,
Mr. Hopper, dear Agatha and I are so much in-
terested in Australia. It must be so pretty with
all the dear little kangaroos flying about. Agatha

ACT n] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

31

has found it on the map. What a curious shape
it is! Just like a large packing case. However, it
is a very young country, isn’t it?

HOPPER. Wasn’t it made at the same time as
the others. Duchess?

DUCHESS OF B. How clevcr you are, Mr. Hop-
per. You have a cleverness quite of your own.
Now I mustn’t keep you.

HOPPER. But I should like to dance with Lady
Agatha, Duchess.

DUCHESS OF B. Well, I hope she has a dance left.
Have you got a dance left, Agatha?

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. Thc next one?

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

HOPPER. May I have the pleasure? [lady
AGATHA bows.]

DUCHESS OF B. Mind you take great care of my
little chatterbox, Mr. Hopper, [lady a. and MR.
H. pass into ball-room.]

[Enter lord w. l.]

LORD w. Margaret, I want to speak to you.

LADY w. In a moment. [The music stops.]

PARKER. Lord Augustus Lorton.

[Enter lord a.]

LORD A. Good evening, Lady Windermere.

DUCHESS OF B. Sir James, will you take me into
the ball-room? Augustus has been dining with us
to-night. I really have had quite enough of dear
Augustus for the moment.

[sir JAMES R. gives the duchess his arm and
escorts her into the ball-room.]

32

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

PAEKEE. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Bowden. Lord
and Lady Paisley. Lord Darlington.

[These people enler as announced.]

LOED A. [Coming up to loed w.] Want to
speak to you, particularly, dear boy. I’m worn to
a shadow. Know I don’t look it. None of us men
do look what we really are. Demmed good thing,
too. What I want to know is this. Who is she?
Where does she come from? Why hasn’t she got
any demmed relations? Demmed nuisance, rela-
tions! But they make one so demmed respect-
able.

LOED w. You are talking of Mrs. Erlynne, I
suppose? I only met her six months ago. 'Till
then I never knew of her existence.

LOED A. You have seen a good deal of her since
then.

LOED w. [Coldly]. Yes, I have seen a good deal
of her since then. I have just seen her.

LOED A. Egad! the women are very down on
her. I have been dining with Arabella this even-
ing! By Jove! you should have heard what she
said about Mrs. Erlynne. She didn’t leave a rag

on her [Aside.] Berwick and I told her

that didn’t matter much, as the lady in question
must have an ex+remely fine figure. You should
have seen Arabella’s expression! .... But, look
here, dear boy. I don’t know what to do about
Mrs. Erlynne. Egad! I might be married to her;
she treats me with such demmed indifference.
She’s deuced clever, too! She explains every-
thing. Egad! She explains you. She has got

ACT II] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

33

any amount of explanations for you — and all of
them different.

LORD w. No explanations are necessary about
my friendship with Mrs. Erlynnc.

LORD A. Hem! Well, look here, dear old fel-
low. Do you think she will ever get into this
demmed thing called Society? Would you in-
troduce her to your wife? No use beating about
the confounded bush. Would you do that?

LORD w. Mrs. Erlynne is coming here to-night.

LORD A. Your wife has sent her a card?

LORD w. Mrs. Erlynne has received a card.

LORD A. Then she’s all right, dear boy. But
why didn’t you tell me that before. It would have
saved me a heap of worrj" and denuned misunder-
standings!

[lady a. and mr. h. cross and exit on terrace

R. E.]

PARKER. Mr. Cecil Graham.

[Enter MR. Cecil g.]

CECIL G. [Bows to LADY w., posscs over and
shakes hands with lord w.]. Good evening,
Arthur. Why don’t you ask me how I am? I like
people to ask me how I am. It shows a wide-
spread interest in my health. Now to-night I am
not at all well. Been dining with my people.
Wonder why it is one’s people are always so
tedious? My father would talk morality after
dinner. I told him he was old enough to know
better. But my experience is that as soon as
people are old enough to know better, they don’t
know anything at all. Hullo, Tuppy! Hear you’re

34

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

going to be married again; thought you were tired
of that game.

LOED A. You’re excessively trivial, my dear
boy, excessively trivial!

CECIL G. By the way, Tuppy, which is it?
Have you been twice married and once divorced,
or twice divorced and once married? I say,
you’ve been twice divorced and once married. It
seems so much more probable.

LOED A. I have a very bad memory. I really
don’t remember which. [Moves away e.]

LADY p. Lord Windermere, I’ve something
most particular to ask you.

LORD w. I am afraid — if you will excuse me — I
must join my wife.

LADY p. Oh, you mustn’t dream of such a thing.
It’s most dangerous now-a-days for a husband to
pay any attention to his wife in public. It always
makes people think that he beats her when they’re
alone. The world has grown so suspicious of any-
thing that looks like a happy married life. But
I’ll tell you what it is at supper. [Moves lowards
door of ball-room.]

LOED w. [c.] Margaret, I must speak to you.

LADY w. Will you hold my fan for me. Lord
Darlington? Thanks. [Comes down to him.]

LORD w. [Crossing to her]. Margaret, what
you said before dinner was, of course, impossible?

LADY w. That woman is not coming here to-
night!

LORD w. [e. c.]. Mrs. Erlynne is coming here,
and if you in any way annoy or wound her, you

ACT n] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

35

will bring shame and sorrow on us both. Remem-
ber that! Ah, Margaret! only trust me! A wife
should trust her husband !_ " ~

lady'w. ~[c.]. London is full of women who
trust their husbands. One can always recognise
them. They look so thoroughly unhappy. I am
not going to be one of them. [Moves up.] Lord
Darlington, will you give me back my fan, please?
Thanks. . \ . A useful thing, a fan, isn’t it? ... I
want a friend to-night. Lord Darlington. I didn’t
know I would want one so soon.

LORD D. Lady Windermere! I knew the time
would come some day; but why to-night?

LORD w. I will tell her. I must. It would be
terrible if there were any scene. Margaret . . .
PARKER. Mrs. Erlynne.

[lord w. starts, mrs. e. enters, very beautifully
dressed and very dignified, lady w. dutches at
her fan, then lets it drop on the floor. She bows
coldly to MRS. E., who bows to her sweetly in turn,
and sails into the room.]

LORD D. You have dropped your fan. Lady
Windermere. [Picks it up and hands it to her.]
MRS. E. [c.] How do you do, again. Lord Win-
dermere? How charming your sweet wife looks!
Quite a picture!

LORD w. [In a low voice]. It was terribly rash
of you to come!

MRS. E. [Smiling]. The wisest thing I ever did
in my life. And, by the way, you must pay me a
good deal of attention this evening. I am afraid
of the women. You must introduce me to some of

36

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

them. The men I can always manage. How do
you do, Lord Augustus? You have quite neg-
lected me lately. I have not seen you since yes-
terday. I am afraid you’re faithless. Every one
told me so.

LORD A. [e.] Now really, Mrs. Erlynne, allow
me to explain.

MRS. E. [e. c.] No, dear Lord Augustus, you
can’t explain anything. It is your chief charm, f

LORD A. Ah! if you find charms in me, Mrs.
Erlynne — [They converse together, lord w. moves
uneasily about the room watching MRS. e.]

LORD D. [To LADY w.]. How pale you are!

LADY w. Cowards are always pale, f

LORD D. You look faint. Come out on the ter-
race.

LADY w. Yes. [To PARKER]. Parker, send my
cloak out.

MRS. E. [Crossing to her]. Lady Windermere,
how beautifully your terrace is illuminated. Re-
minds me of Prince Doria’s at Rome, [lady w.
bows coldly, and goes off vnth lord d.J Oh, how do
you do, Mr. Graham? Isn’t that your aunt. Lady
Jedburgh? I should so much like to know her.

CECIL G. [After a moment’s hesitation and em-
barrassment]. Oh, certainly, if you wish it.
Aunt Caroline, allow me to introduce Mrs.
Erlynne.

MRS. B. So pleased to meet you. Lady Jedburgh.
[Sits beside her on the sofa.] Y our nephew and I are
great friends. I am so much interested in his
political career. I think he’s sure to be a wonderful

ACT II] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

37

success. He thinks like a Tory, and talks like a
Radical, and that’s so important now-a-days.
He’s such a brilliant talker, too. But we all know
from whom he inherits that. Lord Allandale was
saying to me only yesterday in the Park, that Mr.
Graham talks almost as well as his aunt.

LADY j. [r.] Most kind of you to say these
charming things to me! [mbs. e. smiles and con-
tinues conversation.]

DiiMBY. [To CECIL G.]. Did you introduce Mrs.
Erlynne to Lady Jedburgh?

CECIL G. Had to, my dear fellow. Couldn’t
help it. That woman can make one do anything
she wants. How, I don’t know.

DUMBT. Hope to goodness she won’t speak to
me! [Saunters towards lady p.]

MRS. E. [c. To LADY J.]. On Thursday? With
great pleasure. [Rises and speaks to lord w.
laughing.] What a bore it is to have to be civil to
these old dowagers. But they always insist on it.

LADY p. [To MR. D.]. Who is that well-dressed
woman talking to Windermere?

DUMBY. Haven’t got the slightest idea. Looks
like an edition de luxe of a wicked French novel,
meant specially for the English market.

MRS. E. So that is poor Dumby with Lady
Plymdale? I hear she is frightfully jealous of him.
He doesn’t seem anxious to speak to me to-night.
I suppose he’s afraid of her. Those straw-coloured
women have dreadful tempers. Do you know, I
think I’ll dance with you first, Windermere.
[lord w. biies his lip and frowns.] It will make

38

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

Lord Augustus so jealous! Lord Augustus!
[lord a. comes down.\ Lord Windermere insists on
my dancing with him first, and, as it’s his own
house, I can’t well refuse. You know I would
much sooner dance with you.

LORD A. [With a low bow]. I wish I could think
so, Mrs. Erlynne.

MRS. E. You know it far too well. I can fancy
a person dancing through life with you and finding
it charming.

LORD A. [Placing his hand on his white waist-
coat]. Oh, thank you, thank you. You are the
most adorable of all ladies!

MRS. E. What a nice speech! So simple and so
sincere! Just the sort of speech I like. Well,
you shall hold my bouquet. [Goes towards ball-
room on LORD w.’s arm.] Ah, Mr. Dumby, how
are you? I am so sony I have been out the last
three times you have called. Come and lunch on
Friday.

DUMBY [With perfect nonchalance]. Delighted.
[lady p. glares with indignation at mr. d. lord a.

follows MRS. E. and lord w. into the ball-room

holding bouquet.]

LADY p. [To MR. D.]. What an absolute brute
you are! I never can believe a word you say!
Why did you tell me you didn’t know her? What
do you mean by calling on her three times run-
ning? You are not to go to lunch there; of course
you understand that?

DUMBY. My dear Laura, I wouldn’t dream of
going!

ACT n] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

39

LADY p. You haven’t told me her name yet!
Who is she?

DtJMBY. [Coughs slightly and smoothes Ms hair\.
She’s a Mrs. Erlynne.

LADY p. That woman !

DUMBY. Yes, that is what every one calls her.

LADY p. How very interesting! How intensely
interesting! I really must have a good stare at
her. [Goes to door of ball-room and looks in.] I
have heard the most shocking things about her.
They say she is ruining poor Windermere. And
Lady Windermere, who goes in for being so
proper, invites her! How extremely amusing!
It takes a thoroughly good woman to do a
thoroughly stupid thing. You are to lunch there
on Friday!

DUMBY. Why?

LADY p. Because I want you to take my hus-
band with you. He has been so attentive lately,
that he has become a perfect nuisance. Now, this
woman is just the thing for him. He’ll dance at-
tendance upon her as long as she lets him, and
won’t bother me. I assure you, women of that
kind are most useful. They form the basis of
other people’s marriages.

DUMBY. What a mystery you are!

LADY p. [Looking at him]. I wish you were!

DUMBY. I am — to myself. I am the only person
in the world I should like to know thoroughly;
but I don’t see any chance of it just at present.

[They pass into the ball-room, and LADY w. and
LORD D. enter from the terrace.]

40 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

LADY w. Yes. Her coming here is monstrous,
unbearable. I know now what you meant to-day
at tea time. Why didn’t you tell me right out?
You should have!

LORD D. I couldn’t! A man can’t tell these
things about another man ! But if I had known he
was going to make you ask her here to-night, I
think I would have told you. That insult, at any
rate, you would have been spared.

LADY w. I did not ask her. He insisted on her
coming — against my entreaties — against my com-
mands. Oh! the house is tainted for me! I feel
that every woman here sneers at me as she dances
by with my husband. What have I done to de-
serve this? I gave him all my life. He took it —
used it — spoiled it! I am degraded in my own
eyes; and I lack courage — I am a coward! [Stfs
doim on sofa.]

LORD D. If I know you at all, I know that you
can’t live with a man who treats you like this!
What sort of life would you have with him? You
would feel that he was lying to you every moment
of the day. You would feel that the look in his
eyes was false, his voice false, his touch false, his
passion false. He would come to you when he was
weary of others; you would have to comfort him.
He would come to you when he was devoted to
others ; you would have to charm him. Y ou would
have to be to him the mask of his real life, the cloak
to hide his secret.

LADY w. You are right — you are terribly right.
But where am I to turn? You said you would be

AC!T n] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

41

my friend, Lord Darlington. — ^Tell me, what am
I to do? Be my friend now.

LORD D. Between men and women there is no
friendship possible. There is passion, enmity,
worship, love, but no friendship. I love you

LADY w. No, no! [iifses.]

LORD D. Yes, I love you! You are more to me
than anything in the whole world. What does
your husband give you? Nothing. Whatever is
in him he gives to this wretched woman, whom he
has thrust into your society, into your home, to
shame you before every one. I offer you my
life

LADY w. Lord Darlington!

LORD D. My life — ^my whole life. Take it, and
do with it what you will. ... I love you — ^love you
as I have never loved any living thing. From the
moment I met you I loved you, loved you blindly,
adoringly, madly! You did not know it then —
you know it now! Leave this house to-night. I
won’t tell you that the world matters nothing, or
the world’s voice, or the voice of society. They
matter a good deal. They matter far too much.
But there are moments when one has to choose
between livir^ one’s own life, fully, entirely, com-
pletely — or dragging out some false, shallow, de-
grading existence that the world in its hypocrisy
demands. You have that moment now. Choose!
Oh, my love, choose!

LADY w. [Moving slowly away from him, and look-
ing at him with startled eyes]. I have not the courage.

LORD D. [Folloiving her]. Yes; you have the

42

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

courage. There may be six months of pain, of
disgrace even, but when you no longer bear his
name, when you bear mine, all will be well. Mar-
garet, my love, my wife that shall be some day —
yes, my wife! You know it! What are you now?
This woman has the place that belongs by right
to you. Oh! go — go out of this house, with head
erect, with a smile upon your lips, with courage in
your eyes. All London will know why you did it;
and who will blame you? No one. If they do,
what matter. Wrong? What is wrong? It’s
wrong for a man to abandon his wife for a shame-
less woman. It is wrong for a wife to remain with a
man who so dishonours her. You said once you
would make no compromise with things. Make
none now. Be brave! Be yourself!

LADY w. I am afraid of being myself. Let me
think! Let me wait! My husband may return to
me. [Si/s down on sofa.]

LORD D. And you would take him back! You
are not what I thought you were. You are just
the same as every other woman. You would
stand anything rather than face the censure of a
world, whose praise you would despise. In a week
you will be driving with this woman in the Park.
She will be your constant guest — ^yoirr dearest
friend. You would endure anything rather than
break with one blow this monstrous tie. You are
right. You have no courage ; none !

LADY w. Ah, give me time to think. I cannot
answer you now. [Passes her hand nervously over
her brow.]

AOTH] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

43

LORD D. It must be now or not at all.

LADTW. [Rising from the sofa]. Then not at all!
[A pause.]

LORD D. You break my heart!

LADY w. Mine is already broken. [A pause.]
LORD D. To-morrow I leave England. This is
the last time I shall ever look on you. You will
never see me again. For one moment our lives
met — our souls touched. They must never meet
or touch again. Good-bye, Margaret. [Exit.]
LADYW. How alone I am in life! How terribly
alone!

[The music stops. Enter the duchess of b. and
LORD p. laughing and talking. Other guests come
on from ball-room.]

DUCHESS OF B. Dear Margaret, I’ve just been
having such a delightful chat with Mrs. Erlyime.
I am so sorry for what I said to you this afternoon
about her. Of course, she must be all right if you
invite her. A most attractive woman, and has
such sensible views on life. Told me she entirely
disapproved of people marrying more than once,
so I feel quite safe about poor Augustus. Can’t
imagine why people speak against her. It’s those
horrid nieces of mine — the Saville girls — they’re
always talking scandal. Still, I should go to Hom-
burg, dear, I really should. She is just a little too
attractive. But where is Agatha? Oh, there she
is. [lady a. and mb. h. enter from the terrace l. u.
E.] Mr. Hopper, I am very angry with you. You
have taken Agatha out on the terrrace, and she is
so delicate.

44

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

HOPPER, [l. c.]. Awfully sorry, Duchess. We
went out for a moment and then got chatting to-
gether.

DUCHESS OF B. [c.] Ah, about dear Australia, I
suppose?

HOPPER. Yes.

DUCHESS OF B. Agatha, darling! [Beckons her
over.]

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. [Aside]. Did Mr. Hopper defi-
nitely —

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. And what answer did you give
him, dear child?

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. [Affectionately]. My dear one!
You always say the right thing. Mr. Hopper!
James! Agatha has told me everything. How
cleverly you have both kept your secret.

HOPPER. You don’t mind my taking Agatha
off to Australia, then. Duchess?

DUCHESS OF B. [Indignantly]. To Australia?
Oh, don’t mention that dreadful vulgar place.

HOPPER. But she said she’d like to come with
me.

DUCHESS OF B. [Severely]. Did you say that,
Agatha?

LADY A. Yes, mamma.

DUCHESS OF B. Agatha, you say the most silly
things possible. I think on the whole that Grosve-
nor Square would be a more healthy place to re-
side in. There are lots of vulgar people live in

ACT ii] LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN

45

Grosvenor Square, but at any rate there are no
horrid kangaroos crawling about. But we’ll talk
about that to-morrow. James, you can take
Agatha down. You’ll come to lunch, of course,
James. At half-past one instead of two. The
Duke will wish to say a few words to you, I am
sure.

HOPPER. I should like to have a chat with the
Duke, Duchess. He has not said a single word to
me yet.

DUCHESS OF B. I think you’ll find he will have
a great deal to say to j^ou to-morrow. [Exit lady
A. with MR. H.] And now good-night, Margaret.
I’m afraid it’s the old, old story, dear. Love —
well, not love at first sight, but love at the end
of the season, which is so much more satisfactory.

LADY w. Good-night, Duchess.

[Exit the DUCHESS of b. on lord p.’s arm.]

LADY p. My dear Margaret, what a handsome
woman your husband has been dancing with! I
should be quite jealous if I were you! Is she a
great friend of yours?

LADY w. No!

LADY p. Really? Good-night, dear. [Looks at
MR. D. and exit]

DUMBY. Awful manners young Hopper has!

CECIL G. Ah! Hopper is one of Nature’s gentle-
men, the worst type of gentlemen I know.

DUMBY. Sensible woman. Lady Windermere.
Lots of wives would have objected to Mrs.
Erlynne coming. But Lady WiRdermereJaas-thaL.
uncommon thing called common sense..„.-

46

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

CECIL G. And Windermere knows tha t nothing
Jooks so like innoeenee a.s an indiscretion.

DTJMBY. Yes; dear Windermere is becoming
almost modem. Never thought he would. [Bows
to LADY w. and exit.]

LADY J. Good-night, Lady Windermere. What
a fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne is ! She is com-
ing to lunch on Thursday, won’t you come too?
I expect the Bishop and dear Lady Merton.

LADY w. I am afraid I am engaged, Lady Jed-
burgh.

LADY J. So sorry. Come, dear.

[Exeunt lady j. and miss g.]
[Enter mbs. e. and lobd w.]

MRS. E. Charming ball it has been! Quite re-
minds me of old days. [Sits on the sofa.] And^ I
see that there are just as many fools in society as
there used to be. So pleased to find that nothing
has altered! Except Margaret. She’s grown
quite pretty. The last time I saw her — twenty
years ago — she was a fright in flannel. Positive
fright, I assure you. The dear Duchess! and that
sweet Lady Agatha! Just the type of girl I like!
Well, really, Windermere, if I am to be the

Duchess’s sister-in-law

LORD w. [Sitting L. of her]. But are you ?

[Exit MB. CECIL G. tvith rest of guests, lady w.
watches with a look of scorn and pain, mbs. e. and
her husband. They are unconscious of her pres-
ence.]

MBS. E. Oh yes! He’s to call to-morrow at
twelve o’clock! He wanted to propose to-night.

AC!T n] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

47

In fact he did. He kept on proposing. Poor
Augustus, you know how he repeats himself.
Such a bad habit! But I told him I wouldn’t give
him an answer till to-morrow. Of course I am
going to take him. And I dare say I’ll make him
an admirable wife, as wives go. And there is a
great deal of good in Lord Augustus. Fortunately
it is all on the surface. Just where good qualities
should be. Of course you must help me in this
matter.

LORD w. I am not called on to encourage Lord
Augustus, I suppose?

MRS. E. Oh, no! I do the encouraging. But
you will make me a handsome settlement, Winder-
mere, won’t you?

LORD w. [Frowning]. Is that what you want to
talk to me about to-night?

MBS. E. Yes.

LORD w. [With a gesture of impatience]. I will
not talk of it here.

MRS. E. [Laughing]. Then we will talk of it on
the terrace. Even business should have a pictur-
esque background. Should it not, Windermere?
With a proper background women can do any-
thing.

LORD w. Won’t to-morrow do as well?

MBS. E. No; you see, to-morrow I am going to
accept him. And I think it would be a good thing
if I was able to tell him that — well, what shall I
say? — £2,000 a year left to me by a third cousin —
or a second husband — or some distant relative of
that Mnd. It would be an additional attraction.

48

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

wouldn’t it? You have a delightful opportunity
now of paying me a compliment, Windermere.
But you are not very clever at pasdng compli-
ments. I am afraid Margaret doesn’t encourage
you in that excellent habit. It's a great mistake
on her part.

cha rming, Jhav give up thinking what is charming.
But seriously, what do you say to £2,000?
£2,500, I think. In modem life margin is every-
thing. Windermere, don’t you think the world an
intensely amusing place? I do!

[Exit on terrace with lord w. Music strikes up in
ball-room.]

LADY w. To stay in this house any longer is
impossible. To-night a man who loves me offered
me his whole life. I refused it. It was foolish of
me. I will offer him mine now. I will give him
mine. I will go to him! [Puts on cloak and goes to
door, then turns back. Sits down at table and ivrites
a letter, puts it into an envelope, and leaves it on
table.] Arthur has never understood me. When
he reads this, he will. He may do as he chooses
now with his life. I have done with mine as I
think best, as I think right. It is he who has
broken the bond of marriage — not I. I only break
its bondage. [Exit.]

[PARKER enters L. and crosses towards the ball-
room B. Enter MRS. E.]

MRS. E. Is Lady Windermere in the ball-

room?

PARKER. Her ladyship has just gone out.
MRS. E. Gone out? She’s not on the terrace?

ACT 111 LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

49

PARKER. No, madam. Her ladyship has just
gone out of the house.

MRS. E. [Starts and looks at the servant with

puzzled expression on her face]. Out of the
house?

PARKER. Yes, madam — her ladyship told me
she had left a letter for his lordship on the table.

MRS. E. A letter for Lord Windermere?

PARKER. Yes, madam.

MRS. E. Thank you. [Exit Parker. The music
in the ball-room stops.] Gone out of her house!
A letter addressed to her husband! [Goes over to
bureau and looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it
down again mth a shudder of fear.] No, no! It
would be impossible! Life doesn’t repeat its
tragedies like that! Oh, why docs this horrible
fancy come across me? Why do I remember now
the one moment of my life I most wish to forget?
Doe s life repeat its t ragedies? [Tears letter open
and reads it, then sinks down into a chair with a
gesture of anguish.] Oh, how terrible! The same
words that twenty years ago I wrote to her father!
and how bitterly I have been punished for it!
No; my punishment, my real pimishment is to-
night, is now! [Still sealed B.]

[Enter lord w. l. tj. e.]

LORD w. Have you said good-night to my wife?
[Comes c.]

MRS. E. [Crushing letter in her hand\. Yes.

LORD w. Where is she?

MRS. e. She is very tired. She has gone to bed.
She said she had a headache.

50

THE PLAYS OP OSCAR WILDE [act n

LORD w. I must go to her. You’ll excuse me?

MRS. E. [Ilising hurriedly]. Oh, no! It’s noth-
ing serious. She’s only very tired, that is all. Be-
sides, there are people still in the supper-room.
She wants you to make her apologies to them.
She said she didn’t wish to be distiubed. [Drops
letter.] She asked me to tell you.

LORD w. [Picks up letter]. You have dropped
something.

MRS. E. Oh, yes, thank you, that is mine. [Puts
out her hand to take it.]

LORD w. [Still looking at letter]. But it’s my
wife’s handwriting, isn’t it?

MRS. E. [Takes the letter quickly]. Yes, it’s — an
address. Will you ask them to call my carriage,
please?

LORD w. Certainly. [Goes l. and exit.]

MRS. E. Thanks. What can I do? What can
I do? I feel a passion awakening within me that
I never felt before. What can it mean? The
daughter must not be like the mother — that would
be terrible. How can I save her? How can I save
my child? A moment may ruin a life. Who knows
that better than I? Windermere must be got out
of the house; that is absolutely necessary. [Goes
L.] But how shall I do it? It must be done some-
how. Ah!

[Enter lord a. r. u. e. carrying bouquet.]

LORD A. Dear lady, I am in such suspense!
May I not have an answer to my request?

MRS. E. Lord Augustus, listen to me. You are
to take Lord Windermere down to yom club at

ACT u] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN 51

once, and keep him there as long as possible.
You understand?

LORD A. But you said you wished me to keep
early hours!

MBS. E. [Nervously]. Do what I tell you. Do
what I tell you.

LORD A. And my reward?

MRS. E. Your reward? Your reward? Oh!
ask me that to-morrow. But don't let Winder-
mere out of your sight to-night. If you do I will
never forgive you. I will never speak to you
again. I’ll have nothing to do with you. Remem-
ber you are to keep Windermere at yoim club, and
don’t let him come back to-night. [Exit.]

LORD A. Well, really, I might be her husband
already. Positively I might. [Follows her in a
bewildered manner.]

Act-drop

ACT III

Scene — lord daheington’s rooms. A large sofa
is in front of fireplace e. At the back of the stage
a curtain is draum across the tvindow. Doors L.
and B. Table R. with miling materials. Table c.
vrith syphons, glasses, and Tantalus frame. Table
L. with cigar and cigarette box. Lamps lit.

LADY w. [Standing by the fireplace]. Why
doesn’t he come? This waiting is horrible. He
should be here. Why is he not here, to wake by
passionate words some fire within me? I am cold
— cold as a loveless thing. Arthur must have read
my letter by this time. If he cared for me, he
would have come after me, would have taken me
back by force. But he doesn’t care. He’s en-
trammelled by this woman — fascinated by her —
dominated by her. If a woman wants to hold a
man, she has merely to appeal to what is worst in
him. We make gods of men, and they leave us.
Others make brutes of them and they fawn and are
faithful. How hideous life is! . . . Oh! it was mad
of me to come here, horribly mad. And yet which
is the worst, I wonder, to be at the mercy of a man
who loves one, or the wife of a man who in one’s
own house dishonours one? What woman knows?
What woman in the whole world? But will he

S2

ACT in] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN 63

love me always, this man to whom I am giving my
life? What do I bring him? Lips that have lost
the note of joy, eyes that are blighted by tears,
chill hands and icy heart. I bring him nothing.
I must go back — no; I can’t go back, my letter has
put me in their power — Arthur would not take me
back! That fatal letter! No! Lord Darlington
leaves England to-morrow. I will go with him — I
have no choice. [Sits down for a few moments.
Then starts up and puts on her cloak.] No, no! I
will go back, let Arthur do with me what he
pleases. I can’t wait here. It has been madness
my coming. I must go at once. As for Lord
Darlington — Oh! here he is! What shall I do?
What can I say to him? Will he let me go away
at all? I have heard that men are brutal, horrible.
. . .Oh! [Hides her face in her hands.]

[Enter mbs. e. l.]

MBS. E. Lady Windermere! [lady w. starts and
looks up. Then recoils in contempt.] Thank
Heaven I am in time. You must go back to your
husband’s house immediately.

LADY w. Must?

MBS. E. [Authoritatively]. Yes, you must!
There is not a second to be lost. Lord Darlington
may return at any moment.

LADY w. Don’t come near me!

MBS. E. Oh! you are on the brink of ruin; you
are on the brink of a hideous precipice. You must
leave this place at once, my carriage is waiting at
the comer of the street. You must come with me
and drive straight home, [lady w. throws off her

64

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iu

doak and flings it on the so/a.] What are you
doing?

LADT w. Mrs. Erlynne — if you had not come
here, I would have gone back. But now that I see
you, I feel that nothing in the whole world would
induce me to live under the same roof as Lord
Windermere. You fill me with horror. There is
something about you that stirs the wildest rage
within me. And I know why you are here. My
husband sent you to lure me back that I might
serve as a blind to whatever relations exist between
you and him.

MRS. E. Oh! you don’t think that — ^you can’t.

LADY w. Go back to my husband, Mrs. Er-
lynne. He belongs to you and not to me. I sup-
pose he is afraid of a scandal. MerLRxe-suck cow-
ards. They outrage eveiy law of the world, and
Rre afraid of the world’s tongue. But he had better
prepare himself. He shall have a scandal. He
shall have the worst scandal there has been in
London for years. He shall see his name in every
vile paper, mine on every hideous placard.

MBS. E. No — ^no

LADY w. Yes! he shall. Had he come himself,
I admit I would have gone back to the life of
degradation you and he had prepared for me — I
was going back — ^but to stay himself at home, and
to send you as his messenger — oh ! it was infamous
— infamous.

MBS. E. [c.] Lady Windermere, you wrong me
horribly — you wrong your husband horribly. He
doesn’t know you are here — ^he thinks you are

ACT III) LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

55

safe in your own house. He thinks you are
asleep in your own room. He never read the mad
letter you wrote to him!

LADYW. [r.] Never read it!

MRS. E. No — ^he knows nothing about it.

LADY w. How simple you think me ! [Going to
?Kr.] You are lying to me!

MRS. E. [Restraining herself]. I am not. I am
telling you the truth.

LADY w. If my husband didn’t read my letter,
how is that you are here? Who told you I had
left the house you were shameless enough to enter?
Who told you where I had gone to? My husband
told you, and sent you to decoy me back. [Crosses
L.]

MBS. E. [r. c.] Your husband has never seen
the letter. I — saw it, I opened it. I — read it.

LADY w. [Turning to her]. You opened a letter
of mine to my husband? You wouldn’t dare!

MRS. E. Dare! Oh! to save you from the abyss
into which you are falling, there is nothing in the
world I would not dare, nothing in the whole world.
Here is the letter. Your husband has never read
it. He never shall read it. [Going to fireplace.]
It should never have been written. [Tears it and
throws it into the fire.]

LADY w. [With infinite contempt in her voice and
look]. How do I know that that was my letter
after all? You seem to think the commonest de-
vice can take me in!

MRS. E. Oh! why do you disbelieve everything
I tell you! What object do you think J have iA

56

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

coming here, except to save you from utter ruin,
to save you from the consequence of a hideous
mistake? That letter that is burning now was
your letter. I swear it to you !

LADY w. [Slowly]. You took good care to bum
it before I had examined it. I cannot trust you.
You, whose whole life is a lie, how could you speak
the truth about anything? [Sits down.]

MRS. E. [Hurriedly]. Think as you like about
me — say what you choose against me, but go back,
go back to the husband you love.

LADY w. [Sullenly]. I do not love him!

MRS. E. You do, and you know that he loves
you.

LADY w. He does not understand what love is.
He understands it as little as you do — but I see
what you want. It would be a great advantage
for you to get me back. Dear Heaven 1 what a life
I would have then! Living at the mercy of a
woman who has neither mercy nor pity in her, a
woman whom it is an infamy to meet, a degrada-
tion to know, a vile woman, a woman who comes
between husband and wife!

MRS. E. [With a gesture of despair]. Lady Win-
dermere, Lady Windermere, don’t say such terri-
ble things. You don’t know how terrible they are,
how terrible and how unjust. Listen, you must
listen ! Only go back to your husband, and I prom-
ise you never to communicate with him again on
any pretext — never to see him — never to have
an 3 d;hing to do with his life or yours. The money
that he gave me, he gave me, not through love,

ACT III] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

57

but through hatred, not in worship, but in con-
tempt. The hold I have over him

LADY w. [Rising], Ah! you admit you have a
hold.

MRS. E. Yes, and I will tell you what it is. It
is his love for you, Lady Windermere.

LADY w. You expect me to believe that?

MRS. E. You must believe it! It is true. It is
his love for you that has made him submit to — oh !
call it what you like, tyranny, threats, anything
you choose. But it is his love for you. His desire
to spare you — shame, yes, shame and disgrace.

LADY w. What do you mean? Y ou are insolent !
What have I to do with you?

MRS. E. [Humbly], Nothing. I know it — but
I tell you that your husband loves you — that you
may never meet with such love again in your
whole life — that such love you will never meet —
and that if you throw it away, the day may come
when you will starve for love and it will not be
given to you, beg for love and it will be denied
you — Oh! Arthur loves you!

LADY w. Arthur? And you tell me there is
nothing between you?

MRS. E. Lady Windermere, before Heaven your
husband is guiltless of all offence towards you!
And I — I tell you that had it ever occurred to me
that such a monstrous suspicion would have en-
tered your mind, I would have died rather than
have crossed your life or his — oh! died, gladly
died! [Moves away to sofa s,,]

LADY w. You talk as if you had a heart. Wo-

58

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

men like you have no hearts. Heart is not in you.
You are bought and sold. [Sits L. c.]

MRS. E. [Starts with a gesture of pain. Then re-
strains herself, and comes over to where lady w. is
sitting. As she speaks, she stretches out her hands
towards her, bid does not dare to touch her]. Believe
what you choose about me. I am not worth a
moment’s sorrow. But don’t spoil your beautiful
young life on my account! You don’t know what
may be in store for you, unless you leave this house
at once. You don’t know what it is to fall into
the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned,
sneered at — to be an outcast! to find the door
shut against one, to have to creep in by hideotis
b5Tvays, afraid every moment lest the mask should
be stripped from one’s face, and all the while to
hear the laughter, the horrible laughter of the
world, a thing more tragic than all the tears the
world has ever shed. You don’t know what it is.
One pays for one’s sin, and then one pays again,
and all one’s life one pays. You must never know
that. — ^As for me, if suffering be an expiation, then
at this moment I have expiated all my faults,
whatever they have been; for to-night you have
made a heart in one who had it not, made it and
broken it. — But let that pass. I may have
wrecked my own life, but I will not let you wreck
yours. You — why, you are a mere girl, you
would be lost. You haven’t got the kind of
brains that enables a woman to get back. You
have neither the wit nor the courage. You
couldn’t stand dishonour. No! Go back. Lady

ACT III] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

69

Windermere, to the husband who loves you, whom
you love. You have a child. Lady Windermere.
Go back to that child who even now, in pain or in
joy, may be calling to you. [lady w. rises.] God
gave you that child. He will require from you
that you make his life fine, that you watch over
him. What answer will you make to God if his
life is ruined through you? Back to your house.
Lady Windermere — ^your husband loves you. He
has never swerved for a moment from the love he
bears you. But even if he had a thousand loves ,
you must stay w ith yo ur c hild. If he wa s harsh t o
ybu7~you ihu^ stay wit h vouf~cluId. If he ill-
treated"you, y ou mu st stay wit h vou r_cbild. If he
abandoned you, your j)lace is with your child.
[LASryirrbursis into tears and buries her face in her
hands.] [Rushing to her.] Lady Windermere!

LADY w. [Holding out her hands to her, help-
lessly, as a child might do]. Take me home. Take
me home.

MRS. E. [/s about to embrace her. Then restrains
herself. There is a look of wondeiful joy in Jm" face.]
Come! li^ere is your cloak? [Getting it from
sofa.] Here. Put it on. Come at once! [They go
to the door.]

LADY w. Stop ! Don’t you hear voices?

MRS. E. No, no! There is no one!

LADYW. Yes, there is! Listen! Oh! that is my
husband’s voice! He is coming in! Save me! Oh,
it’s some plot ! Y ou have sent for him !

[Voices outside.]

MBS. E. Silence! 1 am here to save you if 1

00

iHE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Uct m

can. But I fear it is too late! There! [Points to
the curtain across the window.] The first chance
you have, slip out, if you ever get a chance !

LADY w. But you!

MBS. E. Oh! never mind me. I’ll face them.
[lady w. hides herself behind the curtain.]

LORD A. [Outside]. Nonsense, dear Winder^
mere, you must not leave me!

MRS. E. Lord Augustus! Then it is I who am
lost! [Hesitates for a moment, then looks round and
sees door r., and exit through it.]

[Enter lord d., mr. d., lord w., lord a. l., and
am. CECIL G.]

DUMBY. What a nuisance their turning us out
of the club at this hour! It’s only two o’clock.
[iSinifcs into a chair.] The lively part of the evening
is only just beginning. [Yatms and closes his
eyes.]

LORD w. It is very good of you, Lord Darling-
ton, allowing Augustus to force our company on
you, but I’m afraid I can’t stay long.

LORDD. Really! I am so sorry! You’ll take a
cigar, won’t you?

LORD w. Thanks! [Sits down.]

LORD A. [To LORD w.]. My dear boy, you must
not dream of going. I have a great deal to talk to
you about, of demmed importance, too. [Sits
down tvUh him at l. table.]

CECIL G. Oh! we all know what that is! Tuppy
can’t talk about anything but Mrs. Erlynne!

LORD w. Well, that is no business of yours, is it,

Cecil?

ACT III] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

61

CECIL G. None! That is why it interests me.
My own business always bores me to death. I
prefer other people’s.

LORD D. Have something to drink, you fellows.
Cecil, you’ll have a whiskey and soda?

CECIL G. Thanks. [Goes to the table vnth lord
D.] Mrs. Erlynne looked very handsome to-
night, didn’t she?

LORD D. I am not one of her admirers.

CECIL G. I usen’t to be, but I am now. Why!
she actually made me introduce her to poor dear
Aunt Caroline. I believe she is going to lunch
there.

LORD D. [In surprise]. No?

CECIL G. She is, really.

LORD D. Excuse me, you fellows. I’m going
away to-morrow. And I have to write a few let-
ters. [Goes to writing table and sits down.]

DUMBY. Clever woman, Mrs. Erlynne.

CECIL G. Hallo, Dumbyl I thought you were
asleep.

DTJMBY. I am, I usually am!

LORD A. A very clever woman. Knows perfect-
ly well what a demraed fool I am — knows it as
well as I do myself, [cecil g. comes towards Mm
laughing.] Ah! you may laugh, my boy, but it is'
a great thing to come across a woman who thor-
oughly understands one.

DUMBY. It is an awfully dangerous thing. Theyi
always end by marrying one.

CECIL G. But I thoi^ht, Tuppy, you were
never going to see her again. Yes! you told me

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

SO yesterday evening at the club. You said you’d
heard — [Whispering to him].

LORD A. Oh, she’s explained that.

CECIL G. And the Wiesbaden affair?

LORD A. She’s explained that, too.

DUMBY. And her income, Tuppy? Has she ex-
plained that?

LORD A. [In a very serious voice]. She’s going to
explain that to-morrow.

[CECIL G. goes back to c. table.]

DUMBY. Awfully commercial, women now-a-
days. Our grandmothers threw their caps over
the mills, of course, but, by Jove, their grand-
daughters only throw their caps over mills that
can raise the wind for them.

LORD A. You want to make her out a wicked
woman. She is not!

! CECIL G. Oh! Wicked women bother one.
Good women bore one. That is the only difference
between them.

LORD D. [Puffing a cigar]. Mrs. Erlynne has a
future before her.

DUMBY. Mrs. Erlynne has a past before her.

^ LORD A. I prefer women with a past. They’re
always so demmed amusing to talk to.

CECIL G. Well, you’ll have lots of topics of con-
versation with her, Tuppy. [Rising and going to
him.]

LORD A. You’re getting annoying, dear boy;
you’re getting demmed annoying.

CECIL G. [Puts Ms hands on his shoulders]. Now,

ACT in] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

63

Tuppy, you’ve lost your figure and you’ve lost
your character. Don’t lose your temper; you
have only got one.

LORD A. My dear boy, if I wasn’t the most
good-natured man in London

CECIL G. We’d treat you with more respect
wouldn’t we, Tuppy? [Strolls away.]

DUMBY. The youth of the present day are quite
monstrous. They have absolutely no respect for
dyed hair.

[lord a. looks round angrily.]

CECIL G. Mrs. Erlynnc has a very great respect
for dear Tuppy.

DUMBY. Then Mrs. Erlynne sets an admirable
example to the rest of her sex. It is perfectly
brutal the way most women now-a-days behave
to men who are not their husbands.

LORD yf. Dumby, you arc ridiculous, and Cecil,
you let your tongue run away with you. You
must leave Mrs. Erlynne alone. You don’t
really know anything about her, and you’re always
talking scandal against her.

CECIL G. [Coming towards him h. c.]. My dear
Arthur, I never talk scandal. I only talk gossip.

LORD w. What is the difference between
scandal and gossip?

CECIL G. Oh! gossip is charming! Histoiy is
merely gossip. But scandal is gossip made tedious
by morality. Now I never moralise. A man who
moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman who
moralises is invariably plain. There is nothing in
the whole world so unbecoming to a woman as a

64

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

Nonconformist conscience. And most women
know it. I’m glad to say.

LORD A. Just my sentiments, dear boy, just my
sentiments.

CECIL G. Sorry to hear it, Tuppy; ^believer
pwple agree with me, I always feci I must be
jVTong.

LORD A. My dear boy, when I was your age—

CECIL G. But you never were, Tuppy, and you
never will be. [Goes up c.] I say, Darlington, let
us have some cards. You’ll play, Arthur, won’t
you?

LORD w. No, thanks, Cecil.

DiiMBY. [With a sigh]. Good heavens! how
marriage ruins a man! It’s as demoralising as
cigarettes, and far more expensive.

CECIL G. You’ll play, of course, Tuppy?

LORD A. [Pouring himself out a brandy and soda
at table]. Can’t, dear boy. Promised Mrs. Er-
lynne never to play or drink again.

CECIL G. Now, my dear Tuppy, don’t be led
astray into the paths of virtue. Reformed, you
would be perfectly tedious. That is the worst of
women. They always want one to be good. And
if we are good, when they meet us, they don’t love
us at all. They like to find us quite irretrievably
bad, and to leave us quite unattractively good.

LORD D. [Rising from R. table, where he has been
writing letters]. They always do find us bad!

DTJMBY. I don’t think we are bad. I think we
are all good except Tuppy.

LORD D. No, we are all in the gutter, but some

Acrm] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

65

of u^are looking at the stars. [Sits down at c.
table.]

DUMBY. We are all in the gutter, but some of us
are looking at the stars? Upon my word, you are
very romantic to-night, Darlington.

CECIL G. Too romantic! You must be in love.
Who is the girl?

LORD D. The woman I love is not free, or
thinks she isn’t. [Glances instinctively at lord w.
while he speaks.]

CECIL G. A married woman, then I Well, there’s
nothing in the world like the devotion of a mar-
ried woman. It’s a thing no married man knows
anything about.

LORD D. Oh I she doesn’t love me. She is a good
woman. She is the only good woman I have ever
met in my life.

CECIL G. The only good woman you have ever
met in your life?

LORD D. Yes!

CECIL G. [Lighting a cigarette]. Well, you are a
lucky fellow! Why, I have met hundreds of good
women. I never seem to meet any but good
women. The world is perfectly packed with good
women. To know them is a middle-class education.

LORD D. This woman has purity and innocence.
She has everything we men have lost.

CECIL G. My dear fellow, what on earth should
we men do going about with purity and inno-
cence? A carefully thought-out buttonhole is
much more effective.

DUMBY. She doesn’t really love you then?

66

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

LORD D. No, she does not!

DUMBY. I congratulate you, my dear fellow. In
this world there are only two tragedies. One is
not getting what one wants, and the other is get-
ting it. The last is much the worst, the last is a
real tragedy! But I am interested to hear she
does not love you. How long could you love a
woman who didn’t love you, Cecil?

CECIL G. A woman who didn’t love me? Oh, all
my life!

DUMBY. So could I. But it’s so difficult to meet
one.

LORD D. How can you be so conceited, Dumby?

DUMBY. I didn’t say it as a matter of conceit.
I said it as a matter of regret. I have been wildly,
madly adored. I am sorry I have. It has been an
immense nuisance. I should like to be allowed a
little time to myself, now and then.

LORD A. [Looking round]. Time to educate your-
self, I suppose.

DUMBY. No, time to forget all I have learned.
That is much more important, dear Tuppy.

[lord a. moves uneasily in his chair.]

LORD D. What cynics you fellows are!

CECIL G. What is a cynic? [Sitting on the back
of the sofa.]

LORD D. A man who knows the price of every-
thing, and the value of nothing.

CECIL G. And a sentimentalist, my dear Dar-
lington, is a man who sees an absurd value in
everything, and doesn’t know the market price of
any single thing.

ACT ni] LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN

67

LORD D. You always amuse me, Cecil. You
talk as if you were a man of experience.

CECIL G. I am. [Moves up to front of fireplace.]

LORD D. You are far too young !

CECIL G. That is a great error. Experience is a
questiou of instinct about lite._ I have got it.
Tuppy hasn’t. Experience is the name Tuppy
gives to his mistakes. That is all.

[lord a. looks around indignantly.]

DUMBY. Experience is the name everyone gives
to their mistakes

CECIL G. [Standing vxith his back to fireplace].
One shouldn’t commit any. [Sees lady w.’sfan
on sofa.]

DUMBY. Life would be very dull without them.

CECIL G. Of course you are quite faithful to this
woman you are in love with, Darlington, to this
good woman?

LORD D. Cecil, i f one really loves a_wo,man, all
/other women in the world become absolutely
m^ningless to one. Love changes one — I am
changed.

CECIL G. Dear me! How very interesting!
Tuppy, I want to talk to you.

[lord a. takes no notice.]

DUMBY. It’s no use talking to Tuppy. You
might just as well talk to a brick wall.

CECIL G. But I like talking to a brick wall — it’s
the only thing in the world that never contradicts
me! Tuppy

LORD A. Well, what is it? What is it? [Rising
and going over to cecil g.]

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

CECIL G. Come over here. I want you particu-
larly. [Aside.] Darlington has been moralising
and talking about the purity of love, and that
sort of thing, and he has got some woman in his
rooms all the time.

LORD A. No, really! really!

CECIL G. [In a low voice]. Yes, here is her fan.
[Points to the fan.]

LORD A. [Chuckling]. By Jove! By Jove!

LORD yf.[Upby door]. I am really off now. Lord
Darlington. I am sorry you arc leaving England
so soon. Pray call on us when you come back!
My wife and I will be charmed to see you!

LORD D. [Up stage with lord w.]. I am afraid I
shall be away for many years. Good-night!

CECIL G. Arthur!

lord w. What?

CECIL G. I want to speak to you for a moment.
No, do come!

LORD w. [Putting on his coat]. I can’t — I’m off!

CECIL G. It is something very particular. It
will interest you enormously.

LORD w. [Smiling]. It is some of your nonsense,
Cecil.

CECIL G. It isn’t! It isn’t really!

LORD A. [Going to him]. My dear fellow, you
mustn’t go yet. I have a lot to talk to you about
And Cecil has something to show you.

LORD w. [Walking over]. Well, what is it?

CECIL G. Darlington has got a woman here in
his rooms. Here is her fan. Amusing, isn’t it?
[A pause.]

LORD w. Good God ! [Seizes the fan — dumby rises.]

ACT III] LADY WINDERMERE FAN

69

CECIL G. What is the matter?

LORD w. Lord Darlington!

LORD D. [Turning round]. Yes!

LORD w. What is my wife's fan doing here in
your rooms? Hands off, Cecil. Don't touch me.

LORD D. Your wife's fan?

LORD w. Yes, here it is!

LORD D. [Walking towards him], I don't know!

LORD w. You must know. I demand an ex-
planation. Don’t hold me, you fool. [To cecil g.]

LORD D. [Aside], She is here after all!

LORD w. Speak, sir! Why is my wife's fan
here? Answer me, By God! I’ll search your
rooms, and if my wife's here. I'll [moves]

LORD D. You shall not search my rooms. You
have no right to do so. I forbid you!

LORD w. You scoundrel! I'll not leave your
room till I have searched every comer of it!
What moves behind that curtain? [Rushes towards
the curtain c.]

MRS. E. [Enters behind r.] Lord Windermere!

LORD w. Mrs. Erlynne!

[Every one starts and turns round, lady w.
slips out from behind the curtain and glides from the
room L.]

MRS. E. I am afraid I took your wife's fan in
mistake for my own, when I was leaving your
house to-night. I am so sorry. [Takes fan from
him, LORD w. looks at her in contempt, lord d.
in mingled astonishment and anger, lord a. turns
away. The other men smile at each other,]

Act-drop

ACT IV

Scene — Same as in Act I.

LADY w. [Lying on sofa]. How can I tell him?
I can’t tell him. It would kill me. I wonder what
happened after I escaped from that horrible room.
Perhaps she told him the true reason of her being
there, and the real meaning of that — fatal fan of
mine. Oh, if he knows — how can I look him in the
face again? He would never forgive me. [Touches
bell.] How securely one thinks one lives — out of
reach of temptation, sin, folly. And then sudden-
ly — Oh! Life is terrible. It rules us, we do not
rule it.

[Enter eosalie r.]

ROSALIE. Did your ladyship ring for me?

LADY w. Yes. Have you found out at what
time Lord Windermere came in last night?

ROSALIE. His lordship did not come in till five
o’clock.

LADY w. Five o’clock! He knocked at my
door this morning, didn’t he?

ROSALIE. Yes, my lady — at half-past nine. I
told him your ladyship was not awake yet.

LADY w. Did he say anything?

ROSALIE. Something about your ladyship’s
fan. I didn’t quite catch what his lordship said.
Has the fan been lost, my lady? I can’t find it,

10

ACT IV] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

71

and Parker says it was not left in any of the rooms.
He has looked in all of them and on the terrace
as well.

LADY w. It doesn’t matter. Tell Parker not to
trouble. That will do.

[Exit ROSALIE.]

LADY w. [Rising]. She is sure to tell him. I can
fancy a person doing a wonderful act of self-
sacrifice, doing it spontaneously, recklessly, nobly
— ^and afterwards finding out that it costs too
much. Why should she hesitate between her
ruin and mine? . . . How strange! I would have
publicly disgraced her in my own house. She
accepts public disgrace in the house of another to
save me. . . . There is a bitter irony in things, a
bitter irony in the way we talk of good and bad
women. . . . Oh, what a lesson ! and what a pity
that in life we only get our lessons when they are
of no use to us! For even if she doesn’t tell, I
must. Oh! the shame of it, the shame of it. To
tell it is to live through it all again. Actions are
the first tragedy in life, words are the second.
Words are perhaps the worst. Words arc merciless
. . .Oh! [Starts as lord w. enters.]

LORD w. [Kisses her]. Margaret — how pale you
look!

LADY w. I slept very badly.

LORD w. [Sitting on sofa ivith her]. I am so
sorry. I came in dreadfully late, and didn’t like
to wake you. You are crying, dear.

LADY w. Yes, I am crying, for I have something
to tell you, Arthur.

72

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

LORD w. My dear child, you are not well.
You’ve been doing too much. Let us go away to
the country. You’ll be all right at Selby. The
season is almost over. There is no use staying on.
Poor darling! We’ll go away to-day, if you like.
[Pises.] We can easily catch the 4.30. I’ll send a
wire to Fanncn. [Crosses and sUs down at table to
mile a telegram.]

LADY w. Yes; let us go away to-day. No; I
can’t go to-day, Arthur. There is some one I
must see before I leave town — some one who has
been kind to me.

LORD w. [Rising and leaning over sofa]. Kind to
you?

LADY w. Far more than that. [Rises and goes
to him.] I will tell you, Arthur, but only love me,
love me as you used to love me.

LORD w. Used to? You are not thinking of ihat
wretched woman who came here last night?
[Coming round and sitting r. of her.] You don’t
still imagine — no, you couldn’t.

LADY w. I don’t. I know now I was wrong and
foolish.

LORD w. It was very good of you to receive her
last night — ^but you are never to see her again.

LADY w. Why do you say that? [A pause.]

LORD w. [Holding her hand]. Margaret, I
thought Mrs. Erlynne was a woman more sinned
against than sinning, as the phrase goes. I
thought she wanted to be good, to get back into a
place that she had lost by a moment’s folly, to
lead again a decent life. I beheved what she told

ACT nr] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

73

me — I was mistaken in her. She is bad — as bad
as a woman can be.

LADY w. Arthur, Arthur, don’t talk so bitterly
about any woman. I don’t think now that people
can be divided into the good and the bad, as though
they were two separate races or creations. What
arc called good women may have terrible things
in them, mad moods of recklessness, assertion,
jealousy, sin. Bad women, as they are termed,
may have in them sorrow, repentance, pity, sacri-
fice. And I don’t think Mrs. Erlynne a bad
woman — I know she’s not.

LORD w. My dear child, the woman’s impossi-
ble. No matter what harm she tries to do us, you
must never see her again. She is inadmissible
anywhere.

LADY w. But I want to see her. I want her to
come here.

LORD w. Never!

LADY w. She came here once as your guest.
She must come now as mine. That is but fair.

LORD w. She should never have come here.

LADY w. [Rising]. It is too late, Arthur, to say
that now. [Moves away.]

LORD w. [Rising]. Margaret, if you knew where
Mrs. Erlynne went last night, after she left this
house, you would not sit in the same room with
her. It was absolutely shameless, the whole thing.

LADY w. Arthur, I can’t bear it any longer. I
must tell you. Last night

[Enter parker with a tray on which lie lady w.’s
fan and a card.]

74

THE PLAYS OF OSCAb WILDE [act nr

PARKER. Mrs. Erlynne has called to return your
ladyship’s fan which she took away by mistake
last night. Mrs. Erlynne has written a message
on the card.

LADY w. Oh, ask Mrs. Erlynne to be kind
enough to come up. [Reads card.] Say I shall be
very glad to see her. [Exit Parker.] She wants
to see me, Arthur.

LORD w. [Takes card and looks at it]. Margaret,
I beg you not to. Let me sec her first, at any rate.
She’s a very dangerous woman. She is the most
dangerous woman I know. You don’t realise
what you’re doing.

LADY w. It is right that I should see her.

LORD w. My child, you may be on the brink of
a great sorrow. Don’t go to meet it. It is abso-
lutely necessary that I should see her before
you do.

LADY w. Why should it be necessary?

[Enter Parker.]

PARKER. Mrs. Erlynne.

[Enter mrs. e. Exit Parker.]

MRS. E. How do you do. Lady Windermere?
[To LORD w.] How do you do? Do you know.
Lady Windermere, I am so sorry about your fan.
I can’t imagine how I made such a silly mistake.
Most stupid of me. And as I was driving in your
direction, I thought I would take the opportunity
of returning your property in person, with many
apologies for my carelessness, and of bidding you
good-bye.

LADY w. Good-bye? [Moxes towards sofa with

ACT nr] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

75

MBS. E. and sits down beside her.] Are you going
away, then, Mrs. Erlynne?

MBS. E. Yes; I am going to live abroad again.
The English climate doesn’t suit me. My — heart
is affected here, and that I don’t like. I prefer
living in the south. London is too full of fogs and
— and serious people. Lord Windermere. Whether
the fogs produce the serious people or whether the
serious people produce the fogs, I don’t know,
but the whole thing rather gets on my nerves,
and so I’m leaving this afternoon by the Club
Train.

LADY w. This afternoon? But I wanted so
much to come and see you.

MBS. E. How kind of you! But I am afraid I
have to go.

LADY w. Shall I never see you again, Mrs.
Erlynne?

MBS. E. I am afraid not. Our lives lie too far
apart. But there is a little thing I would like you
to do for me. I want a photograph of you. Lady
Windermere — would you give me one? You don’t
know how gratified I should be.

LADY w. Oh, with pleasure. 'There is one on
that table. I’ll show it to you. [Goes across to the
table.]

LORD w. [Coming up to mbs. e. and speaking in a
low voice]. It is monstrous your intruding yourself
here after your conduct last night.

MBS. E. [With an amused smile]. My dear Win-
dermere, manners before morals!

LADY w. [Returning]. I’m afraid it is very

76

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

flattering — I am not so pretty as that. [Showing
photograph.]

MBS. E. You are much prettier. But haven’t
you got one of yourself with your little boyV

LADY w. I liave. Would you prefer one of
those?

MBS. E. Yes.

LADY w. I’ll go and get it for you, if you’ll ex-
cuse me for a moment. I have one upstairs.

MRS. E. So sorry, Lady Windermere, to give you
so much trouble.

LADY V. [Moves to door B.]. No trouble at all,
Mrs. Erlynne.

MBS. E. Thanks so much. [Exit lady w'. b.]
You seem rather out of temper this morning, Win-
dermere. Why should you be? Margaret and I
get on charmingly together.

LORD w. I can’t bear to see you with her. Be-
sides, you have not told me the truth Mrs.
Erlynne.

MRS. E. I have not told her the truth, you
mean.

LORD w. [Standing c.]. I sometimes wish you
had. I should have been spared then the misery,
the anxiety, the annoyance of the last six months.
But rather than my wife should know — that the
mother whom she was taught to consider as dead,
the mother whom she has mourned as dead, is
living — a divorced woman going about under an
assumed name, a bad woman preying upon life,
as I know you now to be — rather than that, I was
ready to supply you with money to pay bill

ACT IV] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

77

after bill, extravagance after extravagance, to risk
what occurred yesterday, the first quarrel I have
ever had with my wife. You don’t understand
what that means to me. How could you? But I
tell you that the only bitter words that ever came
from those sweet lips of hers were on your account,
and I hate to see you next her. You sully the
innocence that is in her. {Moves h. c.] And then
I used to think that with all your faults you were
frank and honest. You are not.

MRS. E. Why do you say that?

LORD w. You made me get you an invitation to
my wife’s ball.

MRS. E. For my daughter’s ball — ^yes.

LORD w. You came, and within an hour of
your leaving the house, you are found in a man’s
rooms — you are disgraced before every one.
[Goes up stage c.]

MRS. E. Yes.

LORD w. [Turning round on her]. Therefore I
have a right to look upon you as what you are — a
worthless, vicious woman. I have the right to tell
you never to enter this house, never to attempt to
come near my wife

MRS. E. [Coldly], My daughter, you mean.

LORD w. Y ou have no right to claim her as your
daughter. You left her, abandoned her, when she
was but a child in the cradle, abandoned her for
your lover, who abandoned you in turn.

MRS. E. [Rising]. Do you count that to his cred-
it, Lord Windermere — or to mine?

LORD w. To his, now that I know you.

78

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

MBS. E. Take care — ^you had better be careful.

LOED w. Oh, I am not going to mince words for
you. I know you thoroughly.

MRS. E. [Looking steadily at him]. I question
that.

LORD w. I do know you. For twenty years of
your life you lived without your child, without a
thought of your child. One day you read in the
papers that she had married a rich man. You saw
your hideous chance. You knew that to spare her
the ignominy of learning that a woman like you
was her mother, I would endure anything. You
began yom' blackmailing.

MRS. E. [Shrugging her shoulders]. Don’t use
ugly words, Windermere. They arc vulgar. I saw
my chance, it is true, and took it.

LORD w. Yes, you took it — and spoiled it all
last night by being found out.

MRS. E. [With a strange smile]. You are quite
right, I spoiled it all last night.

LORD w. And as for your blunder in taking my
wife’s fan from here, and then leaving it about in
Darlington’s rooms, it is unpardonable. I can’t
bear the sight of it now. I shall never let my wife
use it again. The thing is soiled for me. You
should have kept it, and not brought it back.

MRS. E. I think I shall keep it. [Goes up.] It’s
extremely pretty. [Takes up fan.] I shall ask
Margaret to give it to me.

LORD w. I hope my wife will give it you.

MRS. E. Oh, I’m sure she will have no objection.

LORD w. I wish that at the same time she would

ACT IV] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

79

give you a miniature she kisses every night before
she prays — It’s the miniature of a young, inno-
cent-looking girl with beautiful dark hair.

MBS. E. Ah, yes, I remember. How long ago
that seems! [Goes to sofa and sits down.] It was
done before I was married. Dark hair and an
innocent expression were the fashion then, Win-
dermere! [A pause.]

LORD w. What do you mean by coming here
this morning? What is your object? [Crossing l.
c. and sitting.]

MRS. E. [ With a note of irony in her voice]. To bid
good-bye to my dear daughter, of course, [lord
w. bites his underlip in anger, mrs. e. looks at him,
and her voice and manner become serious. In her ac-
cents as she talks there is a note of deep tragedy.
For a moment she reveals herself.] Oh, don’t
imagine I am going to have a pathetic scene with
her, weep on her neck and tell her who I am, and
all that kind of thing. I have no ambition to play
the part of a mother. Only once in my life have
I known a mother’s feelings. That was last night.
They were terrible — they made me suffer — they
made me suffer too much. For twenty years, as
you say, I have lived childless — I want to live
childless still. [Hiding her feelings with a trivial
laugh.] Besides, my dear Windermere, how on
earth could I pose as a mother with a grown-up
daughter? Margaret is twenty-one, and I have
never admitted that I am more than twenty-nine,
or thirty at the most. 'Twenty-nine when there
axe pink shades, thirty when there are not. So

80

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act rv

you see what difficulties it would involve. No, as
far as I am concerned, let your wife cherish the
memory of this dead, stainless mother. Why
should I interfere with her illusions? I find it
hard enough to keep my own. I lost one illusion
last night. I thought I had no heart. I find I
have, and a heart doesn’t suit me, Windermere.
Somehow it doesn’t go with modem dress. It
makes one look old. [Takes up hand-mirror from
table and looks into it.] And it spoils one’s career
at critical moments.

LORD w. You fill me with horror — with absolute
horror.

MBS. E. [Rising]. I suppose, Windermere, you
would like me to retire into a convent or become a
hospital nurse or something of that kind, as people
do in silly modem novels. That is stupid of you,
Arthur; in real life we don’t do such things — not
as long as we have any good looks left, at any rate.
No — ^what consoles one now-a-days is not repent-
ance, but pleasure. Repentance is quite out of
date. And besides, if a woman really repents, she
has to go to a bad dressmaker, otherwise no one
believes in her. And nothing in the world would
induce me to do that. No; I am going to pass
entirely out of your two lives. My coming into
them has been a mistake — I discovered that last
night.

LORD w. A fatal mistake.

MBS. E. [Smiting]. Almost fatal.

LORD w. I am sorry now I did not tell my wife
the whede thing at once.

ACT IV] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

81

MRS. E. I regret my bad aetions. You regret
your good ones — that is the difference between us.

LORD w. I don’t trust you. I will tell my wife.
It’s better for her to know, and from me. It will
cause her infinite pain — ^it will humiliate her ter-
ribly, but it’s right that she should know.

MRS. E. You propose to tell her?

LORD w. I am going to tell her.

MRS. E. [Going up to him]. If you do, I will make
my name so infamous that it will mar every
moment of her life. It will ruin her and make her
wretched. If you dare to tell her, there is no depth
of degradation I will not sink to, no pit of shame
I will not enter. You shall not tell her — I forbid
you.

LORD w. Why?

MRS. E. [After a pause]. If I said to you that I
cared for her, perhaps loved her even — ^you would
sneer at me, wouldn’t you?

LORD w. I should feel it was not true. A
mother’s love means devotion, unselfishness, sac-
rifice. What could you know of such things?

MRS. E. You are right. What could I know of
such things? Don’t let us talk any more about it,
as for telling my daughter who I am, that I do not
allow. It is my secret, it is not yours. If I make
up my mind to tell her, and I think I will, I shall
tell her before I leave this house — if not, I shall
never tell her.

LORD w. [Angrily]. Then let me beg of you to
leave our house at once. I will make your excuses
to Margaret.

82

TBOE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act rr

[Enter lady w. r. She goes over to mbs. e. mUi
the photograph in her hand, lord w. moves to back
of sofa, and anxiously watches mrs. e. as the scene
progresses.]

LADY w. I am so sorry, Mrs. Erlynne, to have
kept you waiting. I couldn’t find the photograph
an5avhere. At last I discovered it in my husband’s
dressing-room — he had stolen it.

MRS. E. [Takes the photograph from her and looks
at t<]. I am not surprised — it is charming. [Goes
over to sofa with lady w. and sits down beside her.
Looks again at the photograph.] And so that is
your little boy! What is he called?

LADY w. Gerard, after my dear father.

MRS. E. [Laying the photograph down]. Really?

LADY w. Yes. If it had been a girl, I would
have called it after my mother. My mother had
the same name as myself, Margaret.

MRS. E. My name is Margaret, too.

LADY w. Indeed!

MRS. E. Yes. [Pause.] You are devoted to
your mother’s memory. Lady Windermere, your
husband tells me.

LADY w. We all have ideals in life. At least we
all should have. Mine is my mother.

MRS. E. Ideals are dangerous things. Realities
are better. They woimd, but they are better.

LADY w. [Shaking her head]. If I lost my ideals,
I should lose everything.

MBS. E. Everything?

LADY w. Yes. [Pause.]

ACT IV] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

8 »

MBS. E. Did your father often speak to you of
your mother?

LADY w. No, it gave him too much pain. He
told me how my mother had died a few months
after I was bom. His eyes filled with tears as he
spoke. Then he begged me never to mention her
name to him again. It made him suffer even to
hear it. My father — my father really died of a
broken heart. His was the most ruined life I know.

MRS. E. [Rising]. I am afraid I must go now,
Lady Windermere.

LADY w. [Rising]. Oh no, don’t.

MBS. B. I think I had better. My carriage
must have come back by this time. I sent it to
Lady Jedburgh’s with a note.

LADY w. Arthur, would you mind seeing if
Mrs. Erlynne’s carriage has come back?

MRS. E. Pray don’t trouble Lord Windermere,
Lady Windermere.

LADY w. Yes, Arthur, do go, please, [lord w.
hesitates for a moment and looks at mbs. e. She
remains quite impassive. He leaves the room.] [To
MRS. E.] Oh! What am I to say to you? You
saved me last night! [Goes toward her.]

MRS. E. Hush — don’t speak of it.

LADY w. I must speak of it. I can’t let you
think that I am going to accept this sacrifice. I
am not. It is too great. I am going to tell my
husband everything. It is my duty.

MRS. E. It is not your duty — ^at least you have
duties to others besides him. You say you owe
me something?

84

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

LADT w. I owe you everything.

MRS. E. Then pay your debt by silence. That
is the only way in which it can be paid. Don’t
spoil the one good thing I have done in my life by
telling it to anyone. Promise me that what passed
last night will remain a secret between us. You
must not bring misery into your husband’s life.
Why spoil his love? You must not spoil it. Love
is easily killed. Oh, how easily love is killed!
Pledge me your word, Lady Windermere, that
you will never tell him. I insist upon it.

LADY w. {With bowed head]. It is your will, not
mine.

MRS. E. Yes, it is my will. And never forget
your child — I like to think of you as a mother.
I like you to think of yourself as one.

LADY w. [Looking up]. I always will now.
Only once in my life I have forgotten my own
mother — that was last night. Oh, if 1 had remem-
bered her, I should not have been so foolish, so
wicked.

MRS. E. [With a slight shudder]. Hush, last night
is quite over.

[Enter lord w.]

LORD w. Your carriage has not come back yet,
Mrs. Erlynne.

MRS. E. It makes no matter. I’ll take a han-
som. There is nothing in the world so respectable
as a good Shrewsbury and Talbot. And now,
dear Lady Windermere, I am afraid it is really
good-bye. [Moves up c.j Oh, I remember.
You’ll think me absurd, but do you know, I’ve

ACT iv] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

86

taken a great fancy to this fan that I was silly
enough to run away with last night from your ball.
Now, I wonder would you give it to me? Lord
Windermere says you may. I know it is his present.

LADY w. Oh, certainly, if it will give you any
pleasure. But it has my name on it. It has
‘Margaret’ on it.

MBS. E. But we have the same Christian name.

LADY w. Oh, I forgot. Of course, do have it.
What a wonderful chance our names being the
same!

MBS. E. Quite wonderful. Thanks — it will
always remind me of you. [Shakes hands with her.]

[Enter pabkeb.]

PABKEB. Lord Augustus Lorton. Mrs. Er-
lynne’s carriage has come.

[Enter lobd a.]

LOBD A. Good morning, dear boy. Good morn-
ing, Lady Windermere. [Sees mbs. e.] Mrs. Er-
lynne!

MBS. E. How do you do. Lord Augustus? Are
you quite well this morning?

LOBD A. [Coldly]. Quite well, thank you, Mrs.
Erl3mne.

MBS. E. You don’t look at all well. Lord Augus-
tus. You stop up too late — it is so bad for you.
You really should take more care of yourself.
Good-bye, Lord Windermere. [Goes towards door
with a bow to lobd a. Suddenly smiles, and looks
back at him.] Lord Augustus! Won’t you see me
to my carriage? You might carry the fan.

lobdw. Allow me!

86

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

MRS. E. No, I want Lord Augustus. I have a
special message for the dear Duchess. Won’t you
carry the fan, Lord Augustus?

LORD A. If you really desire it, Mrs. Erlynne.

MRS. E. [Laughing], Of course I do. You’ll
carry it so gracefully. You would carry of! any-
thing gracefully, dear Lord Augustus. [When she
reaches the door she looks hack for a moment at
LADY w. Their eyes meet. Then she turns, and
exit c,, followed by lord a.]

LADY You will never speak against Mrs. Er-
lynne again, Arthur, will you?

LORD w. [Gravely], She is better than one
thought her.

LADY w. She is better than I am.

LORD w. [Smiling as he strokes her hair]. Child,
you and she belong to different worlds. Into your
world evil has never entered.

LADY w. Don’t say that, Arthur. There is the
same world for all of us, and good and evil, sin and
innocence, go through it hand in hand. To shut
one’s eyes to half of life that one may live securely
is as though one blinded oneself that one might
walk with more safety in a land of pit and
precipice.

LORD w. [Moves down with her]. Darling, why
do you say that?

LADY w. [Sits on sofa]. Because I, who had shut
my eyes to life, came to the brink. And one who
had separated us

LORD w. We were never parted.

LADY w. We never must be again. Oh, Arthur,
don’t love me less, and I will trust you more. J

ACT IV] LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN

87

will trust you absolutely. Let us go to Selby. In
the Rose Garden at Selby, the roses are white and
red.

[Enter lord a. c.]

LORD A. Arthur, she has explained everything!
[lady w. looks horribly frightened, lord w. starts.
LORD A. takes lord w. by the arm, and briny s him to
front of stage]. My dear fellow, she has explained
every demmed thing. We all wronged her im-
mensely. It was entirely for my sake she went to
Darlington’s rooms — called first at the club. Fact
is, wanted to put me out of suspense, and being
told I had gone on, followed — naturally — fright-
ened when she heard a lot of men commg in — re-
tired to another room — I assure you, most grati-
fying to me, the whole thing. We all behaved
brutally to her. She is just the woman for me.
Suits me down to the ground. All the condition
she makes is that we live out of England — a very
good thing, too! — Demmed clubs, demmed cli-
mate, demmed cooks, demmed everything! Sick
of it all.

L VDY w. [Frightened]. Has Mrs. Erlynne ?

LORD A. [Advancing towards her loith a bow].
Yes, Lady Windermere, Mrs. Erlynne has done
me the honour of accepting my hand.

LORD w. Well, you arc certainly marrying a
very clever woman.

LADY w. [Taking her husband’s hand]. Ah!
you’re manydng a very good woman.

Curtain

A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

ThjA acting rights to Woman of No Importance** are
held by Mr. Charles Frohman, Empire Theatre Building^
New York City, to whom application must be made for the
right to perform, either by amateurs or professionals.

A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

London: Haymarket Theatre: Lessee and Manager,
Mr. H. Beerbohm Tree, April 19, 1893

Chakacters

ix)ED ILLMGWOHTH Mr. Tree

SIB JOHN PONTEFRACT Mr. E. Holmaii Clark

LORD ALFRED RUFFORD Mr. Emest Lawford

MB. KELViL, M.p. Mr. Charles Allan

THE VEN. ARCHDEACON

DAUBENY, D.D. Mr. Kemble

GERALD ARBUTHNOT Mr. Terry

FARQUHAR (Butler) Mr. Hay

FRANCIS (Footman) Mr. Montague

LADY HUNSTANTON Miss Rose Leclerq

LADY CAROLINE pontefractMIss Le Thiere
LADY STUTFIELD Miss Blanche Horlock

MBS. ALLONBY Mrs. Tree

MISS HESTER WORSLEY Miss Julia Neilson

ALICE (Maid) Miss Kelly

MRS. ARBUTHNOT Mrs. Bemard-Bcere

The Scenes of the Play

Act I The Terrace at Hunstanton Chase.

Act II The Drawing-Room at Himstanton
Chase.

Act hi The Hall at Hunstanton Chase.

Act IV Sitting-room in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s House
at Wrockley.

Time — ^The Present.

Place — ^The Shires.

The action of the play takes place within twenty-
four hours.

91

A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

ACT I

Scene — Lawn in front of the terrace at Hunstan-
ton. [sir JOHN and lady Caroline Pontefract,
MISS WORSLEY, OH chairs under large yew tree.]

LADY CAROLINE. I believe this is the first Eng-
lish country house you have stayed at, Miss
Worsley?

HESTER. Yes, Lady Caroline.

LADY CAROLINE. You have no country houses,
I am told, in America?

HESTER. We have not many.

LADY CAROLINE. Have you any Country? What
wc should call country?

HESTER [Smiling], Wc have the largest country
in the world, I^ady Caroline. They used to tell us
at school that some of our states are as big as
France and England put together.

LADY CAROLINE. Ah! you must find it very
draughty, I should fancy. [To sir john.] John,
you should have your muffler. What is the use
of my always knitting mufflers for you if you won’t
wear them?

SIR JOHN. I am quite warm, Caroline, I assure
you.

LADY CAROLINE. I think not, John. Well, you
couldn’t come to a more charming place than this.

93

94

THE PLAYS OF OSCAE WILDE [act i

Miss Worsley, though the house is excessively
damp, quite unpardonably damp, and dear Lady
Hunstanton is sometimes a little lax about the
people she asks down here. [To sib john.] Jane
mixes too much. Lord Illingworth, of course, is
a man of high distinction. It is a privilege to
meet him. And that member of Parliament, Mr.
Kettle

SIR JOHN. Kelvil, my love, Kelvil.

LADY CAROLINE. He must be quite respectable.
One has never heard his name before in the whole
course of one’s life, which speaks volumes for a
man, now-a-days. But Mrs. Allonby is hardly a
very suitable person.

HESTER. I dislike Mrs. Allonby. I dislike her
more than I can say.

LADY CAROLINE. I am not sure, Miss Worsley,
that foreigners like yourself should cultivate likes
or dislikes about the people they are invited to
meet. Mrs. Allonby is very well bom. She is a
niece of Lord Brancaster’s. It is said, of course,
that she ran away twice before she was married.
But you know how unfair people often are. I
myself don’t believe she ran away more than once.

HESTER. Mr. Arbuthnot is very charming.

LADY CAROLINE. Ah, yes! the young man who
has a post in a bank. Lady Hunstanton is most
kind in asking him here, and Lord Illingworth
seems to have taken quite a fancy to him. I am
not sure, however, that Jane is right in taking
him out of his position. In my young days, Miss
Worsley, one never met any one in society who

ACT I] A WOMAN OP NO IMPORTANCE

95

worked for their living. It was not considered
the thing.

HESTER. In America those are the people we
respect most.

LADY CAROLINE. I have no doubt of it.

HESTER. Mr. Arbuthnot has a beautiful na-
ture! He is so simple, so sincere. He has one of
the most beautiful natures I have ever come
across. It is a privilege to meet him.

LADY CAROLINE. It is not customary, in Eng-
land, Miss Worsley, for a young lady to speak
with such enthusiasm of any person of the oppo-
site sex. English women conceal their feelings
till after they are married. They show them then.

HESTER. Do you, in England, allow no friend-
ship to exist between a young man and a young
girl?

{Enter lady hunstanton followed by footman
with shawls and a cushion.]

LADY CAROLINE. We think it very inadvisable.
Jane, I was just saying what a pleasant party you
have asked us to meet. You have a wonderful
power of selection. It is quite a gift.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Dear Caroline, how kind of
you! I think we all do fit in very nicely together.
And I hope our charming American visitor will
carry back pleasant recollections of our English
countiy life. [To footman.] The cushion there,
Francis. And my shawl. The Shetland. Get
the Shetland.

[Exit footman for shawl.]

[ErUer gerald arbuthnot.]

96

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act »

GERALD. Lady Hunstanton, I have such good
news to tell you. Lord Illingworth has just of-
fered to make me his secretary.

LADY HUNSTANTON. His Secretary? That is
good news indeed, Gerald. It means a very bril-
liant future in store for you. Your dear mother
will be delighted. I really must try and induce
her to come up here to-night. Do you think she
would, Gerald? I know how difficult it is to get
her to go anywhere.

GERALD. Oh! I am sure she would, Lady Hun-
stanton, if she knew Lord Illingworth had made
me such an offer.

[Enter footman wUh shaicL]

LADY HUNSTANTON. I will write and tell her
about it, and ask her to come up and meet him.
[To FOOTMAN.] Just wait, Francis. [WrikskUer.]

LADY CAROLINE. That is a very wonderful
opening for so young a man as you are, Mr. Ar-
buthnot.

GERALD. It is indeed. Lady Caroline. I trust
I shall be able to show myself worthy of h.

LADY CAROLINE. I trust SO.

GERALD [To HESTER]. You have not congratu-
lated me yet. Miss Worsley.

HESTER. Are you very pleased about it?

GER.\LD. Of course I am. It means cverj'thing
to me — things that were out of the reach of hope
before may be within hope’s reach now.

HESTER. Nothing should be out of the reacli of
hope. Life is a hope.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I fancy, Caroline, that

ACT 1] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

97

Diplomacy is what Lord Illingworth is aiming at.
I heard that he was offered Vienna. But that
may not be true.

LADY CAROLINE. I don’t think that England
should be represented abroad by an unmarried
man, Jane. It might lead to complications.

LADY HiTNSTANTON. You are too nervous, Car-
oline. Believe me, you are too nervous. Besides,
Lord Illingworth may marry any day. I was in
hopes he would have married Lady Kelso. But I
believe he said her family was too large. Or was
it her feet? I forget which. I regret it very much.
She was made to be an ambassador’s wife.

LADY CAROLINE. She Certainly has a wonderful
faculty of remembering people’s names, and for-
getting their faces.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, that is very natiual,
Caroline, is it not? [To footman.] Tell Henry to
wait for an answer. I have written a line to your
dear mother, Gerald, to tell her your good news,
and to say she really must come to dinner.

[Exit FOOTMAN.]

GERAI.D. That is awfully kind of you. Lady
Hunstanton. [To hester.] Will you come for a
stroll. Miss Worsley?

HESTER. With pleasure. [Exit with gerald.]

LADY HITNSTANTON. I am vciy much gratified
at Gerald Arbuthnot's good fortune. He is quite
a prolSg^ of mine. And I am particularly pleased
that Lord Illingworth should have made the offer
of his own accord without my suggesting anything.
Nobody likes to be asked favours. I remember

98

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

poor Charlotte Pagden making herself quite un-
popular one season because she had a French
governess she wanted to recommend to every
one.

LADY CAROLINE. I saw the govcnicss, Jane.
Lady Pagden sent her to me. It was before Eleanor
came out. She was far too good-looking to be in
any respectable household. I don’t wonder Lady
Pagden was so anxious to get rid of her.

LADY HUNSTANTON. All, that explains it.

LADY CAROLINE. John, the grass is too damp
for you. You had better go and put on your over-
shoes at once.

SIR JOHN. I am quite comfortable, Caroline, I
assure you.

LADY CAROLINE. You must allow mc to be the
best judge of that, John. Pray do as I tell you.

[sir JOHN gels up and goes off.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. You spoil him, Caroline,
you do indeed!

[Enter mrs. allonby and lady stctfield.]

[To MRS. ALLONBY.] Well, dear, I hope you like
the park. It is said to be well timbered.

MRS. ALLONBY. The trees are wonderful. Lady
Hunstanton.

LADY stutfield. Quite, quite wonderful.

MRS. ALLONBY. But somehow, I feel sure that
if I lived in the coimtry for six months, I should
become so unsophisticated that no one would
take the slightest notice of me.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I assure you, dear, that the
countiy has not that effect at all. Why, it was

ACT I] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

99

from Melthrope, which is only two mUes from
here, that Lady Belton eloped with Lord Fethers-
dale. I remember the occurrence perfectly. Poor
Lord Belton died three days afterwards of joy,
or gout. I forget which. We had a large party
staying here at the time, so we were all very
much interested in the whole affair.

MRS. ALLONBY. I think to elope is cowardly.
It’s running away from danger. And danger has
become so rare in modem life.

LADY CAROLINE. As far as I can make out, the
young women of tlic present day seem to make it
the sole object of their lives to be always playing
with fire.

MRS. ALLONBY. The onc advantage of playing
with fire, Lady Caroline, is that one never gets
even singed. It is the people who don’t know
how to play with it who get burned up.

LADY STUTFiELD. Yes; I See that. It is very,
very helpful.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I don’t know how the
world would get on with such a theory as that,
dear Mrs. Allonby.

LADY STUTFIELD. Ah! The world was made
for men and not for women.

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh, don’t say that. Lady Stut-
field. We have a much better time than they
have. There are far more things forbidden to us
than are forbidden to them.

LADY STUTFIELD. Yes; that is quite, quite true.
I had not thought of that.

[Enier sir john and mb. kelvil.]

100

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, Mr. Kelvil, have you
got through your work?

KELVIL. I have finished my writing for the day,
Lady Hunstanton. It has been an arduous task.
The demands on the time of a public man are very
heavy now-a-days, very heavy indeed. And I
don’t think they meet with adequate recognition.

LADY CAROLINE. John, have you got your over-
shoes on?

SIR JOHN. Yes, my love.

LADY CAROLINE. I think you had better come
over here, John. It is more sheltered.

SIR JOHN. I am quite comfortable, Caroline.

LADY C.AROLINE. I think not, John. You had
better sit beside me. [sir john rises and goes
across.]

LADY STUTFIELD. And wliat have you been
writing about this morning, Mr. Kelvil?

KELVIL. On the usual subject. Lady Stutfield.
On Purity.

LADY STUTFIELD. That must be such a very,
very interesting thing to write about.

KELVIL. It is the one subject of really national
importance, now-a-days. Lady Stutfield. I pur-
pose addressing my constituents on the question
before Parliament meets. I find that the poorer
classes of this country display a marked desire
for a higher ethical standard.

LADY STUTFIELD. How quite, quite nice of them.

LADY CAROLINE. Are you in favour of women
taking part in politics, Mr. Kettle?

SIR JOHN. Kelvil, my love, Kelvil.

ACT i] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

101

KELViL. The growing influence of women is the
one reassuring thing in our political life, Lady
Caroline. Women are always on the side of mor-
ality, public and private.

LADY STUTFiELD. It is SO very, very gratifying
to hear you say that.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, yes! the moral quali-
ties in women — that is the important thing. I am
afraid, Caroline, that dear Lord Illingworth
doesn’t value the moral qualities in women as
much as he should.

[Enkr lord Illingworth.]

LADY STUTFIELD. The world says that Lord
Illingworth is very, very wicked.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. But what World says that.
Lady Stutficld? It must be the next world. This
world and I are on excellent terms. [Siis dotm
beside mrs. allonby.]

LADY STUTFIELD. Every one I know says you
are very, very wicked.

lord ILLINGWORTH. It is perfectly monstrous
the way people go about, now-a-days, saying
things against one behind one’s back that are ab-
solutely and entirely true.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Dear Lord Illingworth is
quite hopeless. Lady Stutfield. I have given up
trying to reform him. It would take a Public
Company with a Board of Directors and a paid
Secretary to do that. But you have the secretary
already. Lord Illingworth, haven’t you? Gerald
Arbuthnot has told us of his good fortune; it is
really most kind of you.

102

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, don’t say that, Lady
Hunstanton. Kind is a dreadful word. I took a
great fancy to young Arbuthnot the moment I
met him, and he’ll be of considerable use to me in
something I am foolish enough to think of doing.

LADT HUNSTANTON. He is an admirable young
man. And his mother is one of my dearest
friends. He has just gone for a walk with our
pretty Ameriean. She is very pretty, is she not?

LADY CAROLINE. Far too pretty. These Ameri-
can girls carry off all the good matches. Why can’t
they stay in their own country? They are always
telling us it is the Paradise of women.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is. Lady Caroline.
That is why, like Eve, they are so extremely
anxious to get out of it.

LADY CAROLINE. Who are Miss Worsley’s pa-
rents?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. American women are won-
derfully clever in concealing their parents.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Lord Illingworth,
what do you mean? Miss Worsley, Caroline, is an
orphan. Her father was a very wealthy million-
aire, or philanthropist, or both, I believe, who en-
tertained my son quite hospitably, when he vis-
ited Boston. I don’t know how he made his
money, originally.

KELVIL. I fancy in American dry goods.

LADY HUNSTANTON. What are American diy
goods?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. American novels.

LADY HUNSTANTON. How veiy sii^lar! . . .

ACT I] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

103

Well, from whatever source her large fortime came,
I have a great esteem for Miss Worsley. She
dresses exceedingly well. All Americans do dress
well. They get their clothes in Paris.

MBS. ALLONBY. They say. Lady Hunstanton,
that when good Americans die they go to Paris.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Indeed? And when bad
Americans die, where do they go to?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, they go to America.

KELViL. I am afraid you don’t appreciate
America, Lord Illingworth. It is a very remark-
able country, especially considering its youth.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. The youth of America is
their oldest tradition. It has been going on now
for three hundred years. To hear them talk one
would imagine they were in their first childhood.
As far as civilisation goes they are in their
second.

KELVIL. There is undoubtedly a great deal of
corruption in American politics. I suppose you
allude to that?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I Wondcr.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Politics are in a very sad
way everywhere, I am told. They certainly are in
England. Dear Mr. Cardew is ruining the coim-
try. I wonder Mrs. Cardew allows him. I am
sure. Lord Illingworth, you don’t think that un-
educated people should be allowed to have votes?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I think they are the only
people who should.

KELVIL. Do you take no side then in modern
politics. Lord Illingworth?

101

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act *

LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never take
sides in anything, Mr. Kclvil. Taking sides is the
beginning of sincerity, and earnestness follows
shortly afterwards, and the human being becomes
a bore. However, the House of Commons really
‘does very little harm. You can’t make people
good by Act of Parliament — that is something.

KELVIL. You cannot deny that the House of
Commons has always shown great sympathy with
the sufferings of the poor.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is its special vice.
That is the special vice of the age. One should
sympathise with the joy, the beauty, the colour of
life. The less said about life’s sores the better,
Mr. Kelvil.

KELVIL. Still our East End is a very important
problem.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite SO. It is the prob-
lem of slavery. And we are trying to solve it by
amusing the slaves.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Certainly, a great deal may
be done by means of cheap entertainments, as you
say. Lord Illingworth. Dear Dr. Daubeny, our
rector here, provides, with the assistance of his
curates, really admirable recreations for the poor
during the winter. And much good may be done
by means of a magic lantern, or a missionary, or
some popular amusement of that kind.

LADY CAROLINE. I am not at all in favour of
amusements for the poor, Jane. Blankets and
coals are sufficient. There is too much love of
pleasure amongst the upper classes as it is. Health

ACT I] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

105

is what we want in modem life. The tone is not
healthy, not healthy at all.

KELViL. You are quite right, Lady Caroline.

LADY CAROLINE. I believe I am usually right.

MRS. ALLONBY. Horrid word ‘health.’

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Silliest word in our lan-
guage, and one knows so well the popular idea of
health. The English country gentleman galloping
after a fox — the unspeakable in full pursuit of the
uneatable.

KELVIL. May I ask, Lord Illingworth, if you
regard the House of Lords as a better institution
than the House of Commons?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. A much better institution,
of course. We in the House of Lords are never in
touch with public opinion. That makes us a
civilised body.

KELVIL. Are you serious in putting forward
such a view?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite serious, Mr. Kelvil.
[To MRS. ALLONBY.] Vulgar habit that is people
have now-a-days of asking one, after one has given
them an idea, whether one is serious or not.
Nothing is serious except passion. The intellect
is not a serious thing, and never has been. It is an
instmment on which one plays, that is all. The
only serious form of intellect I know is the British
intellect. And on the British intellect the illiter-
ates play the drum.

LADY HUNSTANTON. What are you saying, Lord
Illingworth, about the drum?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I was merely talking to

106

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

Mrs. Allonby about the leading articles in the
London newspapers.

LADY HUNSTANTON. But do you believe all that
is written in the newspapers?

LOBD ILLINGWORTH. I do. Now-a-days it is
only the unreadable that occurs. [i?ises mih mrs.

ALLONBY.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. Arc you going, Mrs. Al-
lonby?

MRS. ALLONBY. Just as far as the conservatory.
Lord Illingworth told me this morning that there
was an orchid there as beautiful as the seven
deadly sins.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, I hope there is
nothing of the kind. I will certainly speak to the
gardener. [Exit MRS. allonby and lord Illing-
worth.]

LADY CAROLINE . Remarkable ts^pe, Mrs. Allonby.

LADY HUNSTANTON. She lets her clever tongue
run away with her sometimes.

LADY CAROLINE. Is that the only thing, Jane,
Mrs. Allonby allows to run away with her?

LADY HUNSTANTON. I hope SO, Caroline, I am
sure.

[Enter lord Alfred.]

Dear Lord Alfred, do join us. [lord Alfred
sits doum beside lady stutfield.]

LADY CAROLINE. You believe good of every
one, Jane. It is a great fault.

LADY STUTFIELD. Do you really, really think.
Lady Caroline, that one should believe evil of
every one?

ACT I] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

107

LADY CAROLINE. I think it is much safer to do
so, Lady Stutfield. Until, of course, people are
found out to be good. But that requires a great
deal of investigation, now-a-days.

LADY STUTFIELD. But there is so much unkind
scandal in modem life.

LADY CAROLINE. Lord Illingworth remarked to
me last night at dinner that the basis of every
scandal is an absolutely immoral certainty.

KELVIL. Lord Illingworth is, of course, a very
brilliant man, but he seems to me to be lacking in
that fine faith in the nobility and purity of life
which is so important in this century.

LADY STUTFIELD. Yes, quite, quite important,
is it not?

KELVIL. He gives me the impression of a man
who does not appreciate the beauty of our Eng-
lish home-life. I should say that he was tainted
with foreign ideas on the subject.

LADY STUTFIELD. There is nothing, nothing like
the beauty of home-life, is there?

KELVIL. It is the mainstay of our moral system
in England, Lady Stutfield. Without it we
would become like our neighbours.

LADY STUTFIELD. That would be so, so sad,
would it not?

KELVIL. I am afraid, too, that Lord Illingworth
regards woman simply as a toy. Now, I have
never regarded woman as a toy. Woman is the
intellectual helpmate of man in public as in private
life. Without her we should forget the tme ideals.
{Sits down beside lady stutfield.]

108

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LADY STUTFiELD. I am SO very, very glad to
hear you say that.

LADY CAROLINE. You a married man, Mr.
Kettle?

SIR JOHN. Kelvil, dear. Kelvil.

KELVIL. I am married. Lady Caroline.

LADY CAROLINE. Family?

KELVIL. Yes.

LADY CAROLINE. How many?

KELVIL. Eight.

[lady STUTFIELD tums her aUentim to lord
ALFRED.]

LADY CAROLINE. Mrs. Kettle and the children
are, I suppose, at the seaside? [sir john shrugs his
shmlders]

KELVIL. My wife is at the seaside with the
children. Lady Caroline.

LADY CAROLINE. You will join them later on,
no doubt?

KELVIL. If my public engagements permit me.

LADY CAROLINE. Your public life must be a
great source of gratification to Mrs. Kettle?

SIR JOHN. Kelvil, my love, Kelvil.

LADY STUTFIELD [To LORD ALFRED]. How very,
very charming those gold-tipped cigarettes of
yours are. Lord Alfred.

LORD ALFRED. They are awfully expensive.
I can only afford them when I’m in debt.

LADY STUTFIELD. It must be terribly, terribly
distressing to be in debt.

LORD ALFRED. One must have some occupation
now-a-days. If I hadn’t my debts I shouldn’t

ACT I] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

109

have anything to think about. All the cliaps I
know are in debt.

LADY STUTFiELD. But don’t the people to whom
you owe the money give you a great, great deal of
annoyance?

[Enter footman.]

LORD ALFRED. Oh no, they write; I don’t.

LADY STUTFIELD. How vcry, very strange.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, here is a letter, Caro-
line, from dear Mrs. Arbuthnot. She won’t dine.
I am so sorry. But she will come in the evening.
I am very pleased indeed. She is one of the sweet-
est of women. Writes a beautiful hand, too, so
large, so firm. [Hands letter to lady Caroline.]

LADY CAROLINE. [Looking at it]. A little lacking
in femininity, Jane. Femininity is the quality I
admire most in women.

LADY HUNSTANTON [Taking hack letter and leaving
it on table]. Oh ! she is very feminine, Caroline, and
so good, too. You should hear what the Arch-
deacon says of her. He regards her as his right
hand in the parish, [footman speaks to her.] In
the Yellow Drawing-room. Shall we all go in?
Lady Stutfield, shall we go in to tea?

LADY STUTFIELD. With pleasure. Lady Hun-
stanton. [They rise and proceed to go off. sir john
offers to carry lady stutfield’s cloak.]

LADY CAROLINE. John! If you would allow
your nephew to look after Lady Stutfield’s cloak,
you might help me with my workbasket.

[Enter lord Illingworth and mbs. allonby.]

SIR JOHN. Certainly, my love. [Exeunt]

110

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MRS. ALLONBY. Curious thing, plain women are
always jealous of their husbands, beautiful women
never are!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Beautiful women never
have time. They are always so occupied in being
jealous of other people's husbands.

MRS. ALLONBY. I should have thought Lady
Caroline would have grown tired of conjugal anx-
iety by this time! Sir John is her fourth!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. So much marriage is cer-
tainly not becoming. Twenty years of romance
make a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years
of marriage make her something like a public
building.

MRS. ALLONBY. Twenty years of romance! Is
there such a thing?

LORD ILLINGWORTH, Not in our day. Women
have become too brilliant. Nothing spoils a ro-
mance so much as a sense of humour in the woman.

MRS. ALLONBY. Or the want of it in the man.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You are quite right. In a
Temple every one should be serious, except the
thing that is worshipped.

MRS. ALLONBY. And that should be man?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Women kneel so grace-
fully; men don't.

MRS. ALLONBY. You are thinking of Lady Stut-
field!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I assurc you I have not
thought of Lady Stutfield for the last quarter of
an hour.

MRS. ALLONBY. Is she such a mystery?

ACT I] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

111

LORD ILLINGWORTH. She is more than a mys-
tery — ^she is a mood.

MRS. ALLONBY. Moods don’t last.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is their chief charm.

[Enter hester and gerald.]

GERALD. Lord Illingworth, every one has been
congratulating me, Lady Hunstanton and Lady
Caroline, and . . . every one. I hope I shall
make a good secretary.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You will be the pattern
secretary, Gerald. [Talks to him.]

MRS. ALLONBY. You enjoy country life, Miss
Worsley?

HESTER. Very much indeed.

MRS. ALLONBY. Don’t find yourself longing for
a London dinner party?

HESTER. I dislike London dinner parties.

MRS. ALLONBY. I adore them. The clever peo-
ple never listen, and the stupid people never talk.

HESTER. I think the stupid people talk a great
deal.

MRS. ALLONBY. Ah, I nevcr listen!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear boy, if I didn’t
like you I wouldn’t have made you the offer. It is
because I like you so much that I want to have you
with me.

[Exit HESTER with GERALD.]
Charming fellow, Gerald Arbuthnot!

MRS. ALLONBY. He is very nice; very nice in-
deed. But I can’t stand the American young lady.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Why?

MRS. ALLONBY. She told me yesterday, and in

112

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

quite a loud voice too, that she was only eighteen.
It was most annoying.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never trust a
woman who tells one her real age. A woman who
would tell one that would tell one anything.

MRS. ALLONBT. She is a Puritan besides

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Ah, that is inexcusable. I
don’t mind plain women being Puritans. It is the
only excuse they have for being plain. But she is
decidedly pretty. I admire her immensely.
[Looks steadjastljf at MRS. allonby.]

MRS. ALLONBY. What a thoroughly bad man
you must be!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you call a bad
man?

MRS. ALLONBY. Tiio sort of man who admires
innocence.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. And a bad woman?

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh! the sort of woman a man
never gets tired of.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You are severe — on your-
self.

MRS. ALLONBY. Define us as a sex.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Sphinxes without secrets.

MRS. ALLONBY. Does that include the Puritan
women?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Do you know, 1 don’t be-
lieve in the existence of Puritan women! 1 don’t
think there is a woman in the world who would
not be a little flattered if one made love to her.
It is Jtlmt which makes women so irresistibly

adorayc- Z

ACT i] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

113

MBS. ALLONBY. You think there is no woman in
the world who would object to being kissed?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Very few.

MRS. ALLONBY. Miss Worsley would not let you
kiss her.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Are you sure?

MRS. ALLONBY. Quite.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you think she’d
do if I kissed her?

MRS. ALLONBY. Either marry you, or strike you
across the face with her glove. What would you
do if she struck you across the face with her
glove?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Fall in love with her,
probably.

MRS. ALLONBY. Then it is lucky you are not
going to kiss her!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Is that a challenge?

MRS. ALLONBY. It is an arrow shot into the air.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Don’t you know that I
always succeed in whatever I try?

MRS. ALLONBY. I am soiTy to hear it. We
women adore iaijures. They lean on us.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You worship successes.
You cling to them.

MRS. ALLONBY. We are the laurels to hide their
baldness.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. And they need you aiways,
except at the moment of triumph.

MBS. ALLONBY. They are uninteresting then.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. How tantalising you are!
[A pause.]

114

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Iact i

MRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth, there is one
thing I shall always like you for.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Only one thing? And I
have so many bad qualities.

MRS. ALLONBY. Ah, don't be too conceited
about them. You may lose them as you grow old.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I never intend to grow old.
The soul is born old but grows young. That is the
comedy of life.

MRS. ALLONBY. And the body is born young
and grows old. That is life’s tragedy.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Its comedy also, some-
times. But what is the mysterious reason why
you will always like me?

MRS. ALLONBY. It is that you have never made
love to me.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I have never done any-
thing else.

MRS. ALLONBY. Really? I have not noticed it.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. How fortunate! It might
have been a tragedy for both of us.

MRS. ALLONBY. We should each have survived.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. One can survive every-
thing now-a-days, except death, and live down
anything except a good reputation.

MRS. ALLONBY. Have you tried a good reputa-
tion?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is One of the many an-
noyances to which I have never been subjected.

MRS. ALLONBY. It may come.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. W^y do you threaten me?

MRS. ALLONBY. I wiU tell you when you have
kissed the Puritan.

ACT 1] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

115

[Enter footman.]

FRANCIS. Tea is served in the Yellow Drawing-
room, my lord.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Tell her ladyship we are
coming in.

FRANCIS. Yes, my lord. [Exit.]

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Shall we go in to tea?

MRS. ALLONBY. Do you like such simple
pleasures?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I adore simple pleasures.
They are the last refuge of the complex. But, if
you wish, let us stay here. Yes, let us stay here.
The Book of Life begins with a man and a woman
in a garden.

MRS. ALLONBY. It ends with Revelations.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You fence divinely. But
the button has come off your foil.

MRS. ALLONBY. I have still the mask.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It makes your ^es love-
lier.

MRS. ALLONBY. Thank you. Come.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. [Sees MRS. arbuthnot’s let-
ter on table, and takes it up and looks at envelope.]
What a curious handwriting! It reminds me of
the handwriting of a woman I used to know years
ago.

MRS. ALLONBY. Who?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! no One. No one in
particular. A woman of no importance. [Throws
letter down, and passes up the steps of the terrace
with MRS. ALLONBY. They smile at each other.]

ACT-DROP

ACT II

Scene — Drawing-room at Hunstanton, after din-
ner, lamps lit. Door l.c. Door R.c.

[Ladies seated on sofas.]

MBS. ALLONBY. What a comfort it is to have
got rid of the men for a little!

LADY STUTFiELD. Yes; mcii persecute us dread-
fully, don’t they?

MBS. ALLONBY. Persecute us? I wish they did.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear!

MRS. ALLONBY. Tim annoying thing is that the
wretches can be perfectly happy without us.
That is why I think it is every woman’s duty neve:
to leave them alone for a single moment, except
during this short breathing space after dinner;
without which I believe we poor women would
be absolutely worn to shadows.

[Enter serv.ants with coffee.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. Worn to sliadows, dear?

MBS. ALLONBY. Yes, Lady Hunstanton. It is
such a strain keeping men up to the mark. They
are always trying to escape from us.

LADY STUTFIELD. It seems to me that it is we
who are always trying to escape from them. Men
are so very, very heartless. They know their pow-
er and use it.

LADY CABOLiNE [Takes coffee from servant].
What stuff and nonsense all this about men is!

116

ACT ii] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

117

The thing to do is to keep men in their proper
place.

MRS. ALLONBT. But what is their proper place,
Lady Caroline?

LADY CAROLINE. Looking after their wives,
Mrs. Allonby.

MRS. ALLONBY [Takes coffee from servant].
Really? And if they’re not married?

LADY CAROLINE. If they arc not married, they
should be looking after a wife. It’s perfectly
scandalous the amount of bachelors who are
going about society. There should be a law passed
to compel them all to marrj- within twelve
months.

LADY STUTFiELD [Refuscs coffee]. But if they’re
in love with some one who, perhaps, is tied to
another?

LADY CAROLINE. In that case. Lady Stutfield,
they should be married off in a week to some
plain respectable girl, in order to teach them not
to meddle with other people’s property.

MRS. ALLONBY. I don’t think that we should
ever be spoken of as other people’s property.
All men are married women’s property. That is
the only true definition of what married women’s
property really is. But we don’t belong to any
one.

LADY STUTFIELD. Oh, I am SO very, very glad
to hear you say so.

LADY HUNSTANTON. But do you really think,
dear Caroline, that legislation would improve
matters in any way? I am told that, now-a-days,

H8

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act u

all the married men live like bachelors, and all the
"bachelors like married men.

Mrs. allonby. I certainly never know one
from the other.

LADY STUTFiELD. Oh, I think one can always
know at once whether a man has home claims
upon his life or not. I have noticed a very, very
sad expression in the eyes of so many married
men.

MBS. ALLONBY. Ah, all that I Ijave noticed is
that they are horribly tedious when they are good
husbands, and abominably conceited when they
are not.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, I supposc the type of
husband has completely changed since my young
days, but I’m bound to state that poor dear
Hunstanton was the most delightful of creatures,
and as good as gold.

MBS. ALLONBY. Ah, my husband is a sort of
promissory note; I am tired of meeting him.

LADY CAROLINE. But you renew him from time
to time, don’t you?

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh no. Lady Caroline. I have
only had one husband as yet. I supposc you look
upon me as quite an amateur.

LADY CAROLINE. With your views on life I won-
der you married at all

MBS. ALLONBY. So do I.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear child, I believe
you are really very happy in your married life,
but that you like to hide your happiness from
others.

ACT II] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

119

MBS. ALiiONBY. I assurc you I was horribly de-
ceived in Ernest.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Oh, I hope not, dear. I
knew his mother quite well. She was a Stratton,
Caroline, one of Lord Crowland’s daughters.

LADY CAROLINE. Victoria Stratton? 1 remem-
ber her perfectly. A silly fair-haired woman with
no chin.

MRS. ALLONBY. Ah, Emest has a chin. He has
a very strong chin, a square chin. Ernest’s chin is
far too square.

LADY STUTFIELD. But do you really think a
man’s chin can be too square? I think a man
should look very, very strong, and that his chin
should be quite, quite square.

MRS. ALLONBY. Then you should certainly know
Emest, Lady Stutfield. It is only fair to tell you
beforehand he has got no conversation at all.

LADY STUTFIELD. I adore silent mec.

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh, Emest isn’t silent. He
talks the whole time. But he has got no conver-
sation. What he talks about I don’t know. I
Imven’t listened to him for years.

STUTFIELD. Have you never forgiven him
thenjUow sad that seems! But all hfe is very,
very sad, is it not?

MRS. ALLONBY. Life, Lady Stutfield, i&_simply a
nwwoais quart d’heure made up of exquisite mo-
ments.

LADY STUTFIELD. Yes, there are moments, cer-
tainly. But was it something very, very wrong
that Mr. Allonby did? Did he become angry

120

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

with you, and say anything that was unkind or
true?

MBS. ALLONBY. Oh dear, no. Ernest is invari-
ably calm. That is one of the reasons he always
gets on my nerves. Nothing is so aggravating as
calmness. There is something positively brutal
about the good temper of most modem men. I
wonder we women stand it as well as we do.

LADY STUTFiELD. Ycs; men’s good temper
shows they are not so sensitive as we are, not so
finely strung. It makes a great barrier often be-
tween husband and wife, does it not? But I would
so much like to know what was the wrong thing
Mr. Allonby did.

MBS. ALLONBY. Well, I will tell you, if you
solemnly promise to tell everybody else.

LADY STUTFIELD. Thank you, thank you. I
will make a point of repeating it.

MBS. ALLONBY. When Ernest and I were en-
gaged he swore to me positively on his knees that
he never had loved any one before in the whole
course of his life. I was very young at the time,
so I didn’t believe him, I needn’t tell you. Un-
fortunately, however, I made no enquiries of any
kind till after I had been actually married four or
five months. I found out then that what he had
told me was perfectly true. And that sort of thing
makes a man so absolutely uninteresting.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear!

MBS. ALLONBY. Men always want to be a
woman’s first love. That is their clumsy vanity.
We women have a more subtle instinct about

ACT ii] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

121

things. What we like is to be a man’s last
romance.

LADY STUTFiELD. I See what you mean. It’s
very, very beautiful..

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear child, you don’t
mean to tell me that you won’t forgive your hus-
band because he never loved any one else? Did
you ever hear such a thing, Caroline? I am quite
surprised.

LADY CAROLINE. Oh, women have become so
highly educated, Jane, that nothing should sur-
prise us now-a-days, except happy marriages.
They apparently are getting remarkably rare.

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh, they’re quite out of date.

LADY STUTFIELD. Except amongst the middle
classes, I have been told.

MRS. ALLONBY. How like the middle classes!

LADY STUTFIELD. Yes — is it not? — very, very
like them.

LADY CAROLINE. If what you tell us about the
middle classes is true. Lady Stutfield, it redounds
greatly to their credit. It is much to be regretted
that in our rank of life the wife should be so per-
sistently frivolous, under the impression appar-
ently that it is the proper thing to be. It is to that
I attribute the unhappiness of so many marriages
we all know of in society.

MRS. ALLONBY. Do you know. Lady Caroline,
I don’t think the frivolity of the wife has ever any-
thing to do with it. More marriages are mined
now-a-days by the common sense of the husband
than by anything else. How can a woman be ex-

122

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

pected to be happy with a man who insists on
treating her as if she were a perfectly rational
being?

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear!

MRS. ALLONBY. Man, poor, awkward, reliable,
necessary man belongs to a sex that has been
rational for millions and millions of years. He
can’t help himself. It is in his race. The History
of Woman is very different. We have always been
picturesque protests against the mere existence of
common sense. We saw its dangers from the first.

LADY STUTFiELD. Yes, the common sense of
husbands is certainly most, most trying. Do tell
me your conception of the Ideal Husband. I
think it would be so very, very helpful.

MRS. ALLONBY. The Ideal Husband? There
couldn’t be such a thing. The institution is
wrong.

LADY STUTFIELD. The Ideal Man, then, in his
relations to us.

LADY CAROLINE. He would probably be ex-
tremely realistic.

MRS. ALLONBY. The Ideal Man! Oh, the Ideal
Man should talk to us as if we were goddesses, and
treat us as if we were children. He should refuse
all our serious requests, and gratify every one of
our whims. He should encourage us to have
caprices, and forbid us to have missions. He
§hcaild always say much more than, he means, and
always mean much more than he says.

LADY HUNSTANTON. But how could he do both,
dear?

ACT n] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

123

MBS. ALLONBY. He shoiild never run down other
pretty women. That would show he had no taste,
or make one suspect that he had too much. No;
he should be nice about them all, but say that
somehow they don’t attract him.

LADY STiTTFiELD. Ycs, that is always very,
very pleasant to hear about other women.

MRS. ALLONBY. If wc ask him a question about
anything, he should give us an answer all about
ourselves. He should invariably praise us for
whatever qualities he knows we haven’t got. But
he should be pitiless, quite pitiless, in reproaching
us for the virtues that we have never dreamed of
possessing. He should never believe that wc know
the use of useful things. That w^ould be unfor-
givable. But he should shower on us everything
we don’t want.

LADY CAROLINE. As fsT as I Can scc, he is to do
nothing but pay bills and compliments.

MRS. ALLONBY. He should pcrsistcntly com-
promise us in public, and treat us with absolute
respect when we are alone. And yet he should
be always ready to have a perfectly terrible
scene, whenever we want one, and to become mis-
erable, absolutely miserable, at a moment’s notice,
and to overwhelm us with just reproaches in less
than twenty minutes, and to be positively violent
at the end of haH an hour, and to leave us for ever
at a quarter to eight, when wc have to go and
dress for dinner. And, when, after that, one has
seen him for really the last time, and he has refused
to take back the little things he has given one.

124

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

and promised never to communicate with one
again, or to write one any foolish letters, he should
be perfectly broken-hearted, and telegraph to one
all day long, and send one little notes every half
hour by a private hansom, and dine quite alone at
the club, so that every one should know how un-
happy he was. And after a whole dreadful week,
dining which one has gone about everywhere with
one’s husband, just to show how absolutely lonely
one was, he may be given a third last parting, in
the evening, and then, if his conduct has been
quite irreproachable, and one has behaved really
badly to him, he should be allowed to admit that
he has been entirely in the wrong, and when he
has admitted that, it becomes a woman’s duty to
forgive, and one can do it all over again from the
beginning, with variations.

LADY HUNSTANTON. How clever you are, my
dear! You never mean a single word you say.

LADY STUTFIELD. Thank you, thank you. It
has been quite, quite entrancing. I must try and
remember it all. There are such a number of de-
tails that are so very, very important.

LADY CABOLiNE. But you have not told us yet
what the reward of the Ideal Man is to be.

MRS. ALLONBY. His reward? Oh, infinite ex-_
pectation. That is quite enough for him.

LADY STUTFIELD. But men are so terribly,
terribly exacting, are they not?

MRS. ALLONBY. That makes no matter. One
should never surrender.

LADY STUTFIELD. Not even to the Ideal Man?

ACT n] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

12fi

MBS. ALLONBY. Certainly not to him. Unless,
of course, one wants to grow tired of him.

LADY STUTFIELD. Oh! . . . ycs. I See that. It
is very, very helpful. Do you think, Mrs. Allonby,
I shall ever meet the Ideal Man? Or are there
more than one?

MRS. ALLONBY. There are just four in London,
Lady Stutfield.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Oh, my dear!

MBS. ALLONBY [Going over to her]. What has
happened? Do tell me.

LADY HUNSTANTON [In a low voice]. I had com-
pletely forgotten that the American young lady
has been in the room all the time. I am afraid
some of this clever talk may have shocked her a
little.

MBS. ALLONBY. Ah, that will do her so much
good!

LADY HUNSTANTON. Let US hope she didn’t
understand much. I think I had better go over
and talk to her. [Rises and goes across to hesteb
woRSLEY.] Well, dear Miss Worsley. [Sitting
down beside her.] How quiet you have been in
your nice little comer all this time ! I suppose you
have been reading a book? There are so many
books here in the library.

HESTER. No, I have been listening to the con-
versation.

LADY HUNSTANTON. You mustn’t believe
eveiything that was said, you know, dear.

HESTER. I didn’t believe any of it.

LADY HUNSTANTON. That is quite right dear.

125

THE PLAYS OP OSCAR WILDE (act n

HESTER [Coniinuing]. I couldn’t believe that
any women could resdly hold such views of Ufe
as I have heard to-night from some of your
guests. [An awkward pause.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. I hear you have such
pleasant society in America. Quite like our own
in places, my son wrote to me.

HESTER. There are cliques in America as else-
where, Lady Hunstanton. But true American
society consists simply of all the good women and
good men we have in our country.

LADY HUNSTANTON. What a sensible system,
and I dare say quite pleasant too. I am afraid in
England we have too many artificial social bar-
riers. We don’t see as much as we should of the
middle and lower classes.

HESTER. In America we have no lower classes.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Really? What a very
strange arrangement!

MRS. ALLONBY. What is that dreadful girl talk-
ing about?

LADY STUTFiELD. She is painfully natural, is
she not?

LADY CAROLINE. There are a great many things
you haven’t got in America, I am told. Miss
Worsley. They say you have no ruins, and no
curiosities.

MRS. ALLONBY \To LADY STUTFIELD], What
nonsense! They have their mothers and their
manners.

HESTER. ’The English aristocracy supply us
with our curiosities. Lady Caroline. They are

ACT II] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

J37

sent over to us every summer, regularly, in the
steamers, and propose to us the day after they
land. As for ruins, we are trying to build up
something that will last longer than brick or
stone. [Gets up to take her fan from table.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. What is that, dear? Ah,
yes, an iron Exhibition, is it not, at that place that
has the curious name?

HESTEB [Standing by table]. We are trying to
buUd up life, Lady Hunstanton, on a better,
truer, purer basis than life rests on here. This
sounds strange to you all, no doubt. How could
it sound other than strange? You rich people in
England; you don’t know how you are living.
How could you know? You shut out from your
society the gentle and the good. Y ou laugh at the
simple and the pure. Living, as you all do, on
others and by them, you sneer at self-sacrifice,
and if you throw bread to the poor, it is merely to
keep them quiet for a season. With all yoiu- pomp
and wealth and art you don’t know how to live —
you don’t even know that. You love the beauty
that you can see and touch and handle, the beauty
that you can destroy, and do destroy, but of the
unseen beauty of life, of the unseen beauty of a
higher life, you know nothing. You have lost
life’s secret. Oh, your English society seems to
me shallow, selfish, foolish. It has blinded its
eyes, and stopped its ears. It lies like a leper in
purple. It sits Uke a dead thing smeared with
gold. It is all wrong, all wrong.

LADY STUTFiELD. I don’t think one should

128

THE PLAYS OF OSCAE WILDE [act n

know of these things. It is not very, very nice,
is it?

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Miss Worsley, I
thought you liked English society so much. You
were such a success in it. And you were so much
admired by the best people. I quite forget what
Lord Henry Weston said of you — but it was most
complimentary, and you know what an authority
he is on beauty.

HESTER. Lord Henry Weston! I remember
him. Lady Hunstanton. A man with a hideous
smile and a hideous past. He is asked every-
where. No dinner-party is complete without him.
What of those whose ruin is due to him? They
are outcasts. They are nameless. If you met
them in the street you would turn your head
away. I don’t complain of their punishment.
Let all women who have sinned be punished.

[MRS. ARBUTHNOT enters from terrace behind in a
cloak with a lace veil over her head. She hears the
last words and starts.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear young lady!

HESTER. It is right that they should be pun-
ished, but don’t let them be the only ones to suf-
fer. If a man and woman have sinned, let them
both go forth into the desert to love or loathe each
other there. Let them both be branded. Set a
mark, if you wish, on each, but don’t punish the
one and let the other go free. Don’t have one law
for men and another for women. You are unjust
to women in England. And till you count what is
a shame in a woman to be an infamy in a man, you

ACT n] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

129

will always be unjust,* and Right, that pillar of
fire, and Wrong, that pillar of cloud, will be made
dim to your eyes, or be not seen at all, or if seen,
not regarded.

LADY CAKOLiNE. Might I, dear Miss Worsley,
as you are standing up, ask you for my cotton that
is just behind you? Thank you.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Mrs. Arbuthnot!
I am so pleased you have come up. But I didn’t
hear you announced.

ifES. ARBUTHNOT. Oh, I camc straight in from
the terrace, Lady Hunstanton, just as I was.
You didn’t tell me you had a party.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Not a party. Only a few
guests who are staying in the house, and whom
you must know. Allow me. [Tries to help her.
Rings bell.] Caroline, this is Mrs. Arbuthnot, one
of my sweetest friends. Lady Caroline Ponte-
fract, Lady Stutficld, Mrs. Allonby, and my
young American friend. Miss Worsley, who has
just been telling us all how wicked we are.

HESTER. I am afraid you think I spoke too
strongly. Lady Hunstanton. But there are some
things in England

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear yoimg lady, there
was a great deal of truth, I dare say, in what you
said, and you looked very pretty while you said it,
which is much more important. Lord Illingworth
would tell us. The only point where I thought
you were a little hard was about Lady Caroline’s
brother, about poor Lord Henry. He is really
such good company.

190

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

[Enter footman.]

Take Mrs. Arbuthnot's things.

[Exit FOOTMAN with wraps.\

HESTER. Lady Caroline, 1 had no idea it was
your brother. I am sorry for the pain I must
have caused you — I

LADY CAROLINE. My dear Miss Worsley, the
only part of your little speech, if I may so term it,
with which I thoroughly agreed, was the part
about my brother. Nothing that you could pos*
sibly say could be too bad for him. 1 regard Henry
as infamous, absolutely infamous. But I am
bound to state, as you were remarking, Jane,
that he is excellent company, and he has one
of the best coolcs in London, and after a good
dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own
relations.

LADY HUNSTANTON [To MISS WORSLEY]. NoW, do
come, dear, and make friends with Mrs. Arbuth-
not. She is one of the good, sweet, simple people
you told us we never admitted into society. I am
sorry to say Mrs. Arbuthnot comes very rarely to
me. But that is not my fault.

MRS. ALLONBY. What a bore it is the men
staying so long after dinner! I expect they are
saying the most dreadful things about us.

LADY STUTFiELD. Do you really think so?

MRS. ALLONBY. I am sure of it.

LADY STUTFIELD. How very, very horrid of
them! Shall wc go on to the terrace?

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh, anything to get away from
the dowagers and the dowdies. [i?fse.s and goes

ACT II] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

131

with LADY STUTFiELD to door L. c.] We are only
going to look at the stars, Lady Hunstanton.

LADY HUNSTANTON. You will find a great many,
dear, a great many. But don’t catch cold. [To
MBS. ARBUTHNOT.] We shall all miss Gerald so
much, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But has Lord Illingworth
really offered to make Gerald his secretary?

LADY HUNSTANTON. Oh, ycs ! He has been most
charming aliout it. He has the highest possible
opinion of your boy. You don’t know Lord Illing-
worth, I believe, dear.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. 1 luivc ncvcr mct him.

LADY HUNSTANTON. You kiiow him by name,
no doubt?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am afraid I don’t. I live
so much out of the world, and see so few people.
I remember hearing years ago of an old Lord
Illingworth who lived in Yorkshire, I think.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, ycs. That would be
the last Earl but one. He was a very curious man.
He wanted to marry beneath him. Or wouldn’t,
1 believe. There was some scandal about it. The
present Lord Illingworth is quite different. He is
very distinguished. He does — well, he does noth-
ing, which I arn afraid our pretty American visitor
here thinks very wrong of anybody, and I don’t
know that he cares much for the subjects in which
you are so interested, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot. Do
you think, Caroline, that Lord Illingworth is in-
terested in the Housing of the Poor?

LADY CAROLINE. I should fancy not at all, Jane.

132

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

LADY HUNSTANTON. We all have our different
tastes, have we not? But Lord Illingwcuth
has a very high position, and there is nothing
he couldn’t get if he chose to ask for it. Of
course, he is comparatively a young man still,
and he has only come to his title within — how
long exactly is it, Caroline, since Lord Illing-
worth succeeded?

LADY CAROLINE. About four years, I think,
Jane. I know it was the same year in which my
brother had his last exposure in the evening news-
papers.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I remember. That
would be about four years ago. Of course, there
were a great many people between the present
Lord Illingworth and the title, Mrs. Arbuthnot.
There was — who was there, Caroline?

LADY CAROLINE. There was poor Margaret’s
baby. You remember how anxious she was to
have a boy, and it was a boy, but it died, and her
husband died shortly afterwards, and she married
almost immediately one of Lord Ascot’s sons, who,
I am told, beats her.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, that is in the family,
dear, that is in the family. And there was also, I
remember, a clergyman who wanted to be a lunatic,
or a lunatic who wanted to be a clergyman, I for-
get which, but I know the Court of Chancery in-
vestigated the matter, and decided that he was
quite sane. And I saw him afterwards at poor
Lord Plumstead’s with straws in his hair, or some-
thing very odd about him. I can’t recall what. I

ACT II] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

133

often regret, Lady Caroline, that dear Lady
Cecilia never lived to see her son get the title.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lady Cecilia?

LADY HUNSTANTON. Lord Illingworth's mother,
dear Mrs. Arbuthnot, was one of the Duchess of
Jcrningham’s pretty daughters, and she married
Sir Thomas Harford, who wasn’t considered a
very good match for her at the time, though he was
said to be the handsomest man in London. I
knew them all quite intimately, and both the
sons, Arthur and George.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was the eldest son who
succeeded, of course. Lady Hunstanton?

LADY HUNSTANTON. No, dear, he was killed in
the hunting field. Or was it fishing, Caroline? I
forget. But George came in for everything. I
always tell him that no younger son has ever had
such good luck as he has had.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lady Hunstanton, I want to
speak to Gerald at once. Might I see him? Can
he be sent for?

LADY HUNSTANTON. Certainly, dear. I will
send one of the servants into the dining-room to
fetch him. I don’t know what keeps the gentlemen
so long. [Rings bell.] When I knew Lord Illing-
worth first as plain George Harford, he was simply
a very brilliant young man about town, with not
a penny of money except what poor dear Lady
Cecilia gave him. She was quite devoted to him.
Chiefly, I fancy, because he was on bad terms with
his father. Oh, here is the dear Archdeacon. [To
SERVANT.] It doesn’t matter.

134

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

[Enler sir John and doctor daubeny. sir John
goes over io lady stutfield, doctor daubeny to

LADY HUNSTANTON.]

THE ARCHDEACON. Lord Illingworth has been
most entertaining. I have never enjoyed myself
more. [iSees mrs. arbuthnot.] Ali, Mrs. Ar-
buthnot.

LADY HUNSTANTON [To DOCTOR DAUBENY]. YoU
see I have got Mrs. Arbuthnot to come to me at
last.

THE ARCHDEACON. That is a gre.at honour, Lady
Hunstanton. Mrs. Daubeny will be quite jealous
of you.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I am SO soiTy Mrs.
Daubeny could not come with you to-night.
Headache as usual, I suppose.

THE ARCHDEACON. Ycs, Lady Hunstanton; a
perfect martyr. But she is happiest alone. She
is happiest alone.

LADY CAROLINE [To her husband], John! [sir
JOHN goes over lo his wife, doctor daubeny talks
to LADY HUNSTANTON and MRS. ARBUTHNOT.]

[MRS. ARBUTHNOT walchcs LORD ILLINGWORTH the
whole time. He has passed across the room without
noticing her, and approaches mrs. allonby, who
with LADY STUTFIELD is standing by the door look-
ing on to the terrace.]

LORD ILLINGWORTH. How is the most charming
woman in the world?

MRS. allonby [Taking lady stutfield by the
hand]. We arc both quite well, thank you, Lord
Illingworth. But what a short time you have been

ACT n] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

136

in the dining-room! It seems as if we had only
just left.

LOBD ILLINGWORTH. I was bored to death.
Never opened my lips the whole time. Absolutely
longing to come in to you.

MRS. ALLONBY. You should ha VC. The Ameri-
can girl lias been giving us a lecture.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. RcallyV All Americans
lecture, I believe. I suppose it is something in
their climate. Wliat did she lecture about?

MRS. ALLONBY. Oh, Puritanism, of course.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am going to convert her,
am I not? How long do you give me?

MRS. ALLONBY. A week.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. A Week is more than
enough.

[Enter gerald and lord Alfred.]

GERALD [Going to MRS. arbuthnot]. Dear
mother!

MRS. arbitthnot. Gerald, I don’t feel at all
well. See me home, Gerald. 1 shouldn’t havecome.

GERALD. I am so sorry, mother. Certainly.
But you must know Lord Illingworth first. [Goes
across room.]

MRS. arbuthnot. Not to-night, Gerald.

GERALD. Lord Illingworth, I want you so much
to know my mother.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. With the greatest pleas-
ure. [To MRS. ALLONBY.] I’ll be back in a mo-
ment. People’s mothers always bore me to death.
All women become like their mothers. That is
their tragedy.

136

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

MRS. ALLONBY. No man does. That is his.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What a delightful mood
you are in to-night ! [Turns round and goes across
with GERALD to MRS. ARBUTHNOT. When he sees
her, he starts back in wonder. Then slowly his eyes
turn towards gerald.]

GERALD. Mother, this is Lord Illingworth, who
has offered to take me as his private secretary.
[MRS. ARBUTHNOT bows coldhj,] It is a wonderful
opening for me, isn't it? I hope he won’t be dis-
appointed in me, that is all. You’ll thank Lord
Illingworth, mother, won’t you?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth is very
good, I am sure, to interest himself in you for the
moment.

LORD ILLINGWORTH [Putting his hand on Ger-
ald’s shoulder]. Oh, Gerald and I are great friends
already, Mrs. . . . Arbuthnot.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. There can be nothing in com-
mon between you and my son. Lord Illingworth.

GERALD. Dear mother, how can you say so?
Of course, Lord Illingworth is awfully clever and
that sort of thing. There is nothing Lord Illing-
worth doesn’t Iniow.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear boy!

GERALD. He knows more about life than any
one I have ever met. I feel an awful duffer when
I am wuth you. Lord Illingworth. Of course, I
have had so few advantages. I have not been to
Eton or Oxford like other chaps. But Lord Illing-
worth doesn’t seem to mind that. He has been
awfully good to me, mother.

ACT ii] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

137

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth may change
his mind. He may not really want you as his
secretary.

GERALD. Mother!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You must rcmcmbcr, as you
said yourself, you have had so few advantages.

MRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth, I want to
speak to you for a moment. Do come over.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Will you excuse me, Mrs.
Arhuthnot? Now, don’t let your charming mother
make any more difficulties, Gerald. The thing is
quite settled, isn’t it?

GERALD. I hope so. [LORD ILLINGWORTH goeS
across to mrs. allonby.]

MRS. ALLONBY. I thought you were never going
to leave the lady in black velvet.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. She is excessively hand-
some. [Looks at MRS. ARBUTHNOT.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. Caroline, shall we all make
a move to the music-room? Miss Worsley is going
to play. You’ll come too, dear Mrs. Arbuthnot,
won’t you? You don’t know what a treat is in
store for you. [To doctor daubeny.] I must
really take Miss Worsley down some afternoon to
the rectory. I should so much like dear Mrs.
Daubeny to hear her on the violin. Ah, I forgot.
Dear Mrs. Daubeny’s hearing is a little defective,
is it not?

THE archdeacon. Her deafness is a great pri-
vation to her. She can’t even hear my sermons
now. She reads them at home. But she has
many resources in herself, many resources.

138

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

LADY HUNSTANTON. She reads a good deal, I
suppose?

THE AECHDEACON. Just the vtTy largest print.
The eyesight is rapidly going. But she’s never
morbid, never morbid.

GERALD [To LORD ILLINGWORTH]. Do Spcak tO
my motlier. Lord Illingworth, before you go into
the rausie-roora. She seems to thinli, somehow,
you don’t mean what you said to me.

MRS. ALLONBY. Aren’t you coming?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. In a fcw moments. I^ady
Hunstanton, if Mrs. Arbuthnot would allow me,
I would like to say a few words to h(;r, and wc will
join you later on.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, of OAIUrSC. YoU will
have a great deal to say to her, and she will have a
great deal to thank you for. It is not every son
who, gets such an offer, Mrs. Arbuthnot. But I
know you appreciate that, dear.

LADY CAROLINE. John!

LADY HUNSTANTON. Now, don’t kecj) Mrs.
Arbuthnot too long, I-ord Illingworth. We can’t
spare her.

[Exit following the other guests. Sound of violin
heard from music-room.]

LORD ILLINGWORTH. So that is our son! Well,
I am very proud of him. He is a Harford, every
inch of him. By the way, why Arbuthnot, llachel?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. One name is as good as
another, when one has no right to any name.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose SO — but why
Gerald?

ACT II] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

139

MBS. ARBUTHNOT. After a man whose heart I
broke — after my father.

LORD iLiJNGWORTH. Well, Rachel, what is over
is over. All I have got to say now is that I am
very, very much pleased with our boy. The world
will know him merely as my private secretary,
but to me he will be something very near, and
very dear. It is a curious thing, Rachel; my life
seemed to be quite complete. It w^xs not so. It
lacked something, it lacked a son. 1 have found
my son now, I am glad I have found him.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You havc 110 right to claim
him, or the smallest part of him. The boy is en-
tirely mine, and shall remain mine.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, you have
had him to yourself for over twenty years. Why
not let me have him for a little now? He is quite
as much mine as yours.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Are you talking of the child
you abandoned? Of the child who, as far as you
arc concerned, might have died of hunger and
of want?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You forget, Rachel, it
was you who left me. It was not I who left you.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I left you bccausc you re-
fused to give the child a name. Before my son
was born, I implored you to marry me.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I had no expectations then.
And besides, Rachel, I wasn't much older than
you were. I was only twenty-two. I was twenty-
one, I believe, when the whole thing began in your
father's garden.

140

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

MRS. ARBTJTHNOT. When a man is old enough to
do wrong he should be old enough to do right
also.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, intellec-
tual generalities are always interesting, but gen-
eralities in morals mean absolutely nothing. As
for saying I left our child to starve, that, of course,
is untrue and silly. My mother offered you six
hundred a year. But you wouldn’t take anything.
You simply disappeared, and carried the child
away with you.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I Wouldn’t have accepted a
penny from her. Your father was different. He
told you, in my presence, when we were, in Paris,
that it was your duty to marry me.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh, duty is what one ex-
pects from others, it is not what one does one’s
self. Of course, I was influenced by my mother.
Every man is when he is young.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I am glad to hear you say so.
Gerald shall certainly not go away with you.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What nonsense, Rachel!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Do you think I would allow
my son

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Our SOn.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. My SOn [LORD ILLINGWORTH
shrugs his shoulders ] — to go away with the man
who spoiled my youth, who ruined my life, who
has tainted every moment of my days? You don’t
realise what my past has been in suffering and in
shame.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Rachel, I must

ACT ii] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

141

candidly say that I think Gerald's future consid-
erably more important than your past.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald cannot separate his
future from my past.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is exactly what he
should do. That is exactly what you should help
him to do. What a tyiiical woman you arc!
You talk sentimentally, and you are thorouglily
selfish the whole time. But don’t let us have a
scene. Rachel, I want you to look at this matter
from the common-sense point of view, from the
point of view of what is best for our son, leaving
you and me out of the question. What is our son
at present? An underpaid clerk in a small
Provincial Bank in a third-rate English town. If
you imagine he is quite happy in such a position,
you arc mistaken. He is thoroughly discon-
tented.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He was not discontented till
he met you. You have made him so.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Of coursc, I luadc him so.
Discontent is the first step in the progress of a
man or a nation. But I did not leave him with a
mere longing for things he could not get. No, I
made him a charming offer. He jumped at it, I
need hardly say. Any young man would. And
now, simply because it turns out that I am the
boy’s own father and he my own son, you propose
practically to ruin his career. That is to say, if I
were a perfect stranger, you would allow Gerald
to go away with me, but as he is my own flesh and
blood you won’t. How utterly illogical you arel

142

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

MBS. ARBUTHNOT. I will Bot allow him to go.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. How Can you prevent it?
What excuse can you give to him for making him
decline such an offer as mine? I won’t tell him in
what relations I stand to him, I need hardly say.
But you daren’t tell him. You know that. Look
how you have brought him up.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have brought him up to be
a good man.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Quite SO. And what is the
result? You have educated him to be your judge
if he ever finds you out. And a bitter, an unjust
judge he will be to you. Don’t be deceived,
Rachel. Children begin by loving their* parents.
After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do
they forgive them.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Georgc, don’t take my son
away from me. I have had twenty years of sorrow,
and I have only had one thing to love me, only
one thing to love. You have had a life of joy, and
pleasure, and success. You have been quite hap-
py, you have never thought of us. There was no
reason, according to your views of life, why you
should have remembered us at all. Your meeting
us was a mere accident, a horrible accident.
Forget it. Don’t come now, and rob me of . . .of
all I have, of all I have in the whole world. You
are so rich in other things. Leave me the little
vineyard of my life; leave me the walled-in garden
and the well of water; the ewe-lamb God sent me,
in pity or in wrath, oh! leave me that, George,
don’t take Gerald from me.

ACT n] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

143

LORD ILLINGAVORTH. Rachel, at the present
moment you are not necessary to Gerald’s career;
I am. There is nothing more to be said on the
subject.

MRS. ARBiTTHNOT. I will not let him go.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Here is Gerald. He has a
right to decide for himself.

[Enter gerald.]

GERALD. Well, dear mother, I hope you have
settled it all with Lord Illingworth?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I havc not, Gerald.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Your mother seems not to
like your coming with me, for some reason.

GERALD. Why, mother?

MRS. ARBITTHNOT. I thought you Were quite
happy here with me, Gerald. I didn’t know you
were so anxious to leave me.

GERALD. Mother, how can you talk like that?
Of course I have been quite happy with you.
But a man can’t stay always with his mother.
No chap does. I want to make myself a position,
to do something. I thought you would have been
proud to see me Lord Illingworth’s secretary.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not think you would be
suitable as a private secretary to Lord Illingworth.
You have no qualifications.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t wisli to sccm to
interfere for a moment, Mrs. Arbuthnot, but as far
as your last objection is concerned, I surely am
the best judge. And I can only tell you that your
son has all the qualifications I had hoped for.
He has more, in fact, than I had even thought of.

144

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act u

Far more, [mrs. arbuthnot remains silent.] Have
you any other reason, Mrs. Arbuthnot, why you
don’t wish your son to accept this post?

GERALD. Have you, mother? Do answer.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. If you have, Mrs. Ar-
buthnot, pray, pray say it. We are quite by our-
selves here. Whatever it is, I need not say I will
not repeat it.

GERALD. Mother?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. If you would likc to bc
alone with your son, I will leave you. You may
have some other reason y^ou don’t wish me to
hear.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have no other reason.

LORD iLLiNGivoRTH. Then, my dear boy, we
may look on the thing as settled. Come, you and
I will smoke a cigarette on the terrace together.
And, Mrs. Arbuthnot, pray let me tell you, that
I think you have acted very, very wisely.

[Exil with GERALD. MRS. ARBUTHNOT is left
alone. She stands immobile, ivith a look of un-
uiterable sorrow on her face.]

ACT-DBOP

ACT III

Scene — The Picture Gallery at Hunstanton.
Door at back leading on to terrace.

[lord ILLINGWORTH and GERALD, R. C. LORD
ILLINGWORTH lolling on a sofa, gerald in a chair.]

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Thoroughly sensible wo-
man, your mother, Gerald. I knew she would
come round in the end.

GERALD. My mother is awfully conscientious,
Lord Illingworth, and I know she doesn’t think I
am educated enough to be your secretary. She is
perfectly right, too. I was fearfully idle when I
was at school, and I couldn’t pass an examination
now to save my life.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Gerald, exami-
nations are of no value whatsoever. If a man is a
gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is
not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for
him.

GERALD. But I am so ignorant of the world,
Lord Illingworth.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Don’t be afraid, Gerald.
Remember that you’ve got on your side the most
wonderful thing in the world— youth! There is
nothing like youth. The middle-aged are mort-
gaged to Life. The old arc in Life’s lumber-room.
But youth is the Lord of Life. Youth has a king-

146

146

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

dom waiting for it. Every one is born a king,
and most people die in exile, like most kings. To
win back my youth, Gerald, there is nothing I
wouldn’t do — except take exercise, get up early,
or be a useful member of the community.

GERALD. But you don’t call yourself old. Lord
Illingworth?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am old cnough to be
your father, Gerald.

GERALD. I don’t remember my father; he died
years ago.

LORD ILLINGWORTH, So Lady Ilunstanton told
me.

GERALD. It is very curious, my mother never
talks to me about my father. I sometimes think
she must have married beneath her.

LORD ILLINGWORTH [Wlnccs slightly]. Really?
[Goes over and puts his hand on Gerald’s shoulder.]
You have missed not having a father, I suppose,
Gerald?

GERALD. Oh, no; my mother has been so good
to me. No one ever had such a mother as I have
had.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am quitc sure of that.
Still I should imagine that most mothers don’t
quite understand their sons. Don’t realise, I
mean, that a son has ambitions, a desire to see
life, to make himself a name. After all, Gerald,
you couldn’t be expected to pass all your life in
such a hole as Wrockley, could you?

GERALD. Oh, no! It would be dreadful!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. A mother’s love is very

act III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE 147

touching, of course, but it is often curiously selfish.
I mean, there is a good de^al of selfishness in it.

GERALD [Slowly]. I supposc there is.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Your motlicr is a thor-
oughly good woman. But good women have such
limited views of life, their horizon is so small,
their interests arc so petty, aren’t they?

GERALD. They are awfully interested, certain-
ly, in things we don’t care much about.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I supposc your motlicr is
veiy religious, and that sort of thing.

GERALD. Oh, yes, she’s always going to church.

LORD ILLINGW^ORTH. Ah! shc is not modern,
and to be modern is the only thing worth being
now-a-days. You want to be modern, don’t you,
(Jerald? You want to know life as it really is.
Not to be put off with any old-fashioned theories
about life. Well, what you have to do at present
is simply to fit yourself for the best society. A
man who can dominate a London dinner-table can
dominate the world. The future belongs to the
dandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.

GERALD, I should like to wear nice things aw-
fully, but 1 have always been told that a man
should not think too much about his clothes.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. People now-a-days arc so
absolutely superficial that they don’t understand
the philosophy of the superficial. By the way,
Gerald, you should learn how to tic your tie bet-
ter. Sentiment is all very well for the button-hole.
But the essential thing for a necktie is style. A
well-tied tie is the first serious step in life.

148

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ni

GERALD [Laughing]. I might be able to learn
how to tie a tie, Lord Illingworth, but I should
never be able to talk as you do. I don't know how
to talk.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! talk to every woman
as if you loved her, and to every rrian as if he
bored you, and at the end of your first season you
will have the reputation of possessing the most
perfect social tact.

GERALD. But it is Very difficult to get into
society, isn’t it?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. To get iiito the best socie-
ty, now-a-days, one has either to feed people,
amuse people, or shock people — that is all.

GERALD. I suppose socicty is wonderfully de-
lightful!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. To be in it is merely a
bore. But to be out of it simply a tragedy.
Socicty is a necessary thing. No man has any
real success in this world unless he has got women
to back him, and women rule socicty. If you have
not got women on your side you arc quite over.
You might just as well be a barrister, or a stock-
broker, or a journalist at once.

GERALD. It is very difficult to understand wo-
men, is it not?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You should Hcvcr tiy to
understand them. Women are pictures. Men are
problems. If you want to know what a woman
really means — ^which, by the way, is always a
dangerous thing to do — ^look at her, don't listen
to her.

ACT III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

149

GERALD. But women are awfully clever, aren't
they?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always tell
them so. But, to the philosopher, my dear Ger-
ald, women represent the triumph of matter over
mind — just as men represent the triumph of mind
over mortals.

GERALD. How then can women have so much
pow(‘T as you say they have?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. The history of women is
the history of the worst form of tyranny the
world has ever known. The tyranny of the weak
over the strong. It is the only tyranny that lasts.

GERALD. But haven’t women got a refining
influence?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Nothing refines but the
intellect.

GERALD, still, there are many different kinds
of women, aren’t there?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Only two kinds in society;
the plain and the coloured.

GERALD. But there arc good women in society,
aren’t there?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Far too many.

GERALD. But do you think women shouldn’t be
good?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. One shoiild never tell
them so, they’d all become good at once. Women
are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a
rebel, and usually in wild revolt against herself.

GERALD. You havc never been married. Lord
Illingworth, have you?

150

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Men marry because they
are tired ; women because they are curious. Both
are disappointed.

GERALD. But don’t you think one can be happy
when one is married?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Perfectly happy. But the
happiness of a married man, my dear Gerald, de-
pends on the people ho has not married.

GERALD. But if one is in love?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always be in
love. That is the reason one should never marry.

GERALD. Love is a veiy wonderful thing, isn’t it?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Wlien onc is in love one
begins by deceiving one’s self. And one ends by
deceiving others. That is what the world calls
a romance. But a really grande passion is com-
paratively rare now-a-days. It is the privilege of
people who have nothing to do. That is the one
use of the idle classes in a country, and the only
possible explanation of us Harfords.

GERALD. Harfords, Lord Illingworth?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is my family name.
You should study the Peerage, Gerald. It is the
one book a young man about town should know
thoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the
English have ever done. And now, Gerald, you are
going now into a perfectly new life with me, and I
want you to know how to live. [mrs. arbuthnot
appears on terrace behind.] For the world has been
made by fools that wise men should live in it !

[Enter L. c. lady Hunstanton and dr. dau-
beny.]

ACT m] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

151

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! here you are, dear
Lord Illingworth. Well, I suppose you have been
telling our young friend, Gerald, what his new
duties are to be, and giving him a great deal of
good advice over a pleasant cigarette.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I have been giving him
the best of advice. Lady Hunstanton, and the
best of cigarettes.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I am SO sony I was not
here to listen to you, but I suppose I am too old
now to learn. Except from you, dear Archdeacon,
when you are in your nice pulpit. But then I al-
ways know what you are going to say, so I don’t
feel alarmed. [Sees MRS. arbuthnot.] Ah! dear
Mrs. Arbuthnot, do come and join us. Come,
dear. [Enter MRS. arbuthnot.] Gerald has been
having such a long talk with Lord Illingworth;
I am sure you must feel very much flattered at the
pleasant way in which everything has turned out
lor him. Let us sit down. [They sit doum.] And
how is your beautiful embroidery going on?

MRS. arbuthnot. I am always at work. Lady
Hunstanton.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Mrs. Daubeny embroiders
a little, too, doesn’t she?

the archdeacon. She was very deft with her
needle once, quite a Dorcas. But the gout has
crippled her fingers a good deal. She has not
touched the tambour frame for nine or ten years.
But she has many other amusements. She is very
much interested in her own health.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! that is always a nice

152

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

distraction, is it not? Now, what are you talking
about, Lord Illingworth? Do tell us.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I was Oil tlic point of ex-
plaining to Gerald that the world has always
laughed at its own tragedies, that being the only
way in which it has been able to bear them. And
that, consequently, whatever the world has treated
seriously belongs to the comedy side of things.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Now I am quite out of my
depth. I usually am when Lord Illingworth says
anything. And the Humane Society is most care-
less. They never rescue me. I am left to sink.
I have a dim idea, dear Lord Illingworth, that you
are always on the side of the sinners, and I know
I always try to be on the side of the saints, but
that is as far as I get. And after all, it may be
merely the fancy of a drowning person.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Tlic only difference be-
tween the saint and the sinner is that every saint
has a past, and every sinner has a future.

LADY HUNSTANTON. All! that quite does for me.
I haven't a word to say. You and I, dear Mrs.
Arbuthnot, are behind the age. We can't follow
Lord Illingworth. Too much care was taken with
our education, I am afraid. To have been well
brought up is a great drawback now-a-days. It
shuts one out from so much.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I should be sorry to follow
Lord Illingworth in any of his opinions.

LADY HUNSTANTON. You are quite right, dear.

[GERALD shrugs his shoulders ayid looks irritably
over al his mother. Enter lady Caroline.]

ACT III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

153

LADY CAROLINE. Jane, have you seen John any-
where?

LADY HUNSTANTON. You needn’t be anxious
about liim, dear. He is with Lady Stutfield ; I saw
them some time ago, in the Yellow Drawing-room.
They seem quite happy together. You are not
going, Caroline? Pray sit down.

LADY CAROLINE. I think I had better look after
John. [Exit lady Caroline.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. It doesn’t do to pay men
so much attention. And Caroline has really
nothing to be anxious about. Lady Stutfield is
very sympathetic. She is just as sympathetic
about one thing as she is about another. A
beautiful nature.

[Enter sir John and mrs. allonby.]

Ah! here is Sir John! And with Mrs. Allonby
too! I suppose it was Mrs. Allonby I saw him
with. Sir John, Caroline has been looking every-
where for you.

MRS. allonby. We have been waiting for her
in the Music-room, dear Lady Hunstanton.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! the Music-room, of
course. I thought it was the Yellow Drawing-
room, my memory is getting so defective. [To the
ARCHDEACON.] Mrs. Daubcny has a wonderful
memory, hasn’t she?

the ARCHDEACON. She used to be quite remark-
able for her memory, but since her last attack she
recalls chiefly the events of her early childhood.
But she finds great pleasure in such retrospec-
tions, great pleasure.

154

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act m

[Enter lady stutfield and me. kelvil.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! dear Lady Stutfield;
and what has Mr. Kelvil been talking to you
about?

LADY STUTFIELD. About Bimetallism, as well
as I remember.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Bimetallism! Is that
quite a nice subject? However, 1 know people
discuss everything very freely now-a-days. What
did Sir John talk to you about, dear Mrs. Al-
lonby?

MKS. ALLONBY. About Patagonia.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Really? What a remote
topic! But very improving, I have no doubt.

MRS. ALLONBY. He has been most interesting on
the subject of Patagonia. Savages seem to have
quite the same views as cultured people on almost
all subjects. They are e.\(;(;ssively advanced.

LADY HUN.STANTON. What do they do?

MRS. ALLONBY. Apparently everything.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, it is very gratifying,
dear Archdeacon, is it not, to find that Human
Nature is permanently one. — On the whole, the
world is the same world, is it not?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. The world is simply divid-
ed into two classes — those who believe the incred-
ible, like the public — and those who do the im-
probable—

MRS. ALLONBY. Like yoursclf?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Yes; I am always aston-
ishing myself. It is the only thing that makes life
worth living.

ACT III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

155

LADY STUTFiELD. And what have you been
doing lately that astonishes you?

LOUD ILLINGWORTH. I have been discovering
all kinds of beautiful qualities in my own nature.

MRS. ALLONRY. Ah! don’t become quite perfect
all at once. Do it gradually!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t intend to grow
perfect at all. At least, 1 hope 1 shan’t. It would
be most inconvenient. Women love us for our
defects. If we have enough of them, they will for-
give us everything, even our gigantic intellects.

MRS. ALLONRY. It is j)rcmature to ask us to for-
give analysis. We forgive adoration; that is quite
as much as should be expected from us.

[Enter lord Alfred. He joins lady stut-

FIELD.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! we womcn should for-
give everything, shouldn’t we, dear Mrs. Arbuth-
not? I am sure you agree with me in that.

MRS. ARRUTHNOT. I do not, Lady Hunstanton.
I think there are many things women should
never forgive.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Wliat sort of things?

MRS. ARRUTHNOT. The ruiii of another woman’s
life. [Moves slowly away to back of stage.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. All ! those tilings are very
sad, no doubt, but I believe there arc admirable
homes where people of that kind are looked after
and reformed, and I think on the whole that the
secret of life is to take things very, very easily.

MRS. ALLONRY. The sccret of life is never to
have an emotion that is unbecoming.

166

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

LADY STUTFIELD. The secret of life is to appre-
ciate tlie pleasure of being terribly, terribly
deceived.

KELViL. The secret of life is to resist tempta-
tion, Lady Stutfield.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. There is no secret of life.
Life’s aim, if it has one, is simply to be always
looking for temptations. There are not nearly
enough. I sometimes pass a whole day without
coming across a single one. It is quite dreadful.
It makes one so nervous about the future.

LADY HUNSTANTON [Shakes her fan at him]. I
don’t know how it is, dear Lord Illingworth, but
everything you have said to-day seems to be ex-
cessively immoral. It has been most interesting,
listening to you.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. All thought is immoral.
It’s the very essence of destruction. If you think
of anything, you kill it. Nothing survives being
thought of.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I don’t understand a word.
Lord Illingworth. But I have no doubt it is all
quite true. Personally, I have very little to re-
proach myself with, on the score of thinking. I
don’t believe in women thinking too much.
Women should think in moderation, as they should
do all things in moderation.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Moderation is a fatal
thing. Lady Hunstanton. Nothing succeeds like
excess.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I hope I shall remember
that. It sounds an admirable maxim. But I’m

ACJT III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

167

beginning to forget everything. It's a great mis-
fortune.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is one of your most fas-
cinating qualities, Lady Hunstanton. No woman
should have a memory. Memory in a woman is
the beginning of dowdiness. One can always tell
from a woman's bonnet whether she has got a
memory or not.

LADY HUNSTANTON. How charming you are,
dear Lord Illingworth. You always find out that
one’s most glaring fault is one's most important
virtue. You have the most comforting views of
life.

[Enter farquiiar.]

FARQUHAR. Doctor Daubcny's carriage!

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear Archdeacon! It
IF only half-past ten.

THE ARCHDEACON [Rising]. I am afraid I must
go, Lady Hunstanton. Tuesday is always one of
Mrs. Daubeny's bad nights.

LADY HUNSTANTON [Rising]. Well, I won’t keep
you from her. [Goes with him towards door.] I
have told Farquhar to put a brace of partridge in-
to the carriage. Mrs. Daubeny may fancy them.

THE ARCHDEACON. It is Very kind of you, but
Mrs. Daubeny never touches solids nowu Lives
entirely on jellies. But she is wonderfully cheer-
ful, wonderfully cheerful. She has nothing to
complain of.

[Exit with LADY HUNSTANTON.]

MRS. ALLONBY [GoeS OVCr to LORD ILLINGWORTH].
There is ^ beautiful moon to-night.

158

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Let US go and look at it.
To look at anything that is inconstant is charm-
ing now-a-days.

MRS. ALLONBY. You have your looking-glass.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is Unkind. It merely
shows me my wrinkles.

MRS. ALLONBY. Mine is better behaved. It
never tells me the truth.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Then it is in love with you.

[Exeunt sir john, lady stutfield, mr. kelvil,
and lord Alfred.]

GERALD [To LORD ILLINGWORTH]. May I COme
too?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Do, my dear boy. [Moves
towards the door with MRS. allonby and gerald.]

[lady CAROLINE enters, looks rapidly round and
goes out in opposite direction to that taken by sir

JOHN and LADY STUTFIELD.]

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald!

GERALD. What, mother
[Exit LORD ILLINGWORTH with MRS. ALLONBY.]

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is getting late. Let us go
home.

GERALD. My dear mother. Do let us wait a
little longer. Lord Illingw'orth is so delightfal,
and, by the way, mother, I have a great surprise
for you. We are starting for India at the end of
this month.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let US go home.

GERALD. If you really want to, of course,
mother, but I must bid good-bye to Lord Illing-
worth first. I’ll be back in five minutes. [Exit.]

ACT ml A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

1S9

MRS. ARBXJTHNOT. Let him leave me if he
chooses, but not with him — not with him! I
couldn’t bear it. [Walks up and down.]

[Enter hesteb.]

HESTER. What a lovely night it is, Mrs.
Arbuthnot.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Is it?

HESTER. Mrs. Arbuthnot, I wish you would let
us be friends. You are so different from the other
women here. When you came into the drawing-
room this evening, somehow you brought with
you a sense of what is good and pure in life. I had
been foolish. There are things that are right to
say, but that may be said at the wrong time and
to the wrong people.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I heard what you said. I
agree with it. Miss Worsley.

HESTER. I didn’t know you had heard it. But
I knew you would agree with me. A woman who
has sinned should be punished, shouldn’t she?

MBS. ARBUTHNOT. YeS.

HESTEB. She shouldn’t be allowed to come into
the society of good men and women?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. She should not.

HESTEB. And the man should be punished in
the same way?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. In the same way. And the
children, if there arc children, in the same way
also?

HESTER. Yes, it is right that the sins of the
parents should be visited on the children. It is a
just law. It is God’s law.

160

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is one of God’s terrible
laws. [Mores away to fireplace.]

HESTER. You are distressed about your son
leaving you, Mrs. Arbuthnot?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. YcS.

HESTER. Do you like him going away with Lord
Illingworth? Of course there is position, no
doubt, and money, but position and money are not
everything, are they?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. They are nothing; they
bring misery.

HESTER. Then why do you let your son go
with him?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He wishes it himself.

HESTER. But if you asked him he would stay,
would he not?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He has set his heart on
going.

HESTER. He couldn’t refuse you anything. He
loves you too much. Ask him to stay. Let me
send him in to you. He is on the terrace at this
moment with Lord Illingworth. I heard them
laughing together as I passed through the music-
room.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t trouble. Miss Wor-
sley, I can wait. It is of no consequence.

HESTER. No, I’ll teU him you want him. Do —
do ask liim to stay. [Exit hester.]

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He won’t comc— 1 4inow he
won’t come.

[Enter lady Caroline. She looks round anx-
iously. Enter Gerald.]

ACT III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

161

LADY CAROLINE. Mr. Arbuthnot, may I ask
you is Sir John anywhere on the terrace?

GERALD. No, Lady Caroline, he is not on the
terrace.

LADY CAROLINE. It is Very curious. It is time
for him to retire.

[Exit LADY CAROLINE.]

GERALD. Dear mother, I am afraid I kept you
waiting. 1 forgot all about it. I am so happy
to-night, mother; I have never been so happy.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. At tlic prospcct of going
away?

GERALD. Don’t put it Ukc that, mother. Of
course I am sorry to leave you. Why, you are the
best mother in the whole world. But after all, as
Lord Illingworth says, it is impossible to live in
such a place as Wrockley. You don’t mind it.
But I'm ambitious; I want something more than
that. I want to have a career. I want to do some-
thing that will make you proud of me, and Lord
Illingworth is going to help me. He is going to do
everything for me.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, don't go away with
Lord Illingworth. I implore you not to. Gerald,
I beg you !

GERALD. Mother, how changeable you are!
You don't seem to know your own mind for a
single moment. An hour and a half ago in the
drawing-room you agreed to the whole thing;
now you turn round and make objections, and try
to force me to give up my one chance in life. Yes,
my one chance. You don't suppose that men like

102

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

Lord Illingworth arc to be found every day, do
you, mother? It is very strange that when I have
had such a wonderful piece of good luck, the one
person to put difficulties in my way should be my
own mother. Besides, you know, mother, 1 love
Hester Worsley. Who could help loving her? I
love her more than I have ever told you, far more.
And if I had a position, if I had prospects, I
could — I could ^isk her to — Don’t you under-
stand now, mother, what it means to me to be
Lord Illingworth’s secretary? To start like that
is to find a career ready for one — before one —
waiting for one. If I were Lord Illingworth’s
secretary I could ask Hester to be my wife. As a
wretched bank clerk with a hundred a year it
would be an impertinence.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I fcar you need have no
hopes of Miss Worsley. I know her views on life.
She has just told them to me. [A pause.]

GERALD. Then I have my ambition left, at any
rate. That is something — I am glad I have that!
You have always tried to crush my ambition,
mother — haven’t you? You have told me that the
world is a wicked place, that success is not worth
having, that society is shallow, and all that sort of
thing — well, I don’t believe it, mother. 1 think
the world must be delightful. I think society
must be exquisite. I think success is a thing
worth having. You have been wrong in all that
you taught me, mother, quite wrong. Lord Illing-
worth is a successful man. He is a fashionable
man. He is a man who lives in the world and for

ACT in] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

163

it. Well, I would give anything to be just like
Lord Illingworth.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I would sooiier sec you dead.

GERALD. Mother, what is your objection to
Lord Illingworth? Tell me — tell me right out.
What is it?

MRS. ARBUTONOT. Hc is a bad man.

GERALD. In what way bad? I don’t under-
stand what you mean.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will tell yoU.

GERALD. I suppose you think him bad, because
he doesn’t bc'Aicve the same things as you do.
Well, men are different from women, mother. It
is natural that they should have different views.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is not what Lord Illing-
worth believes, or what he does not believe, that
makes him bad. It is what he is.

GERALD, Mother, is it somctliing you know of
him? Something you actually know?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is Something I know.

GERALD. Something you arc quite sure of?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Quitc SUrC of.

GERALD. How loiig havc you known it?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. For twenty years.

GERALD. Is it fair to go back twenty years in
iny man’s career? And what have you or I to do
with Lord Illingworth’s early life? What business
IS it of ours?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Wliat this man has been, he
s now, and will be always.

GERALD. Mother, tell me what Lord Illing-
i?orth did? If he did anything shameful, 1 will

164

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ih

not go away with him. Surely you know me well
enough for that?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, come near to me.
Quite close to me, as you used to do when you were
a little boy, when you were mother’s own boy.
[GERALD sits dowu besidc his mother. She runs her
fMgers through his hair, and strokes his hands.]
Gerald, there was a girl once, she was very young,
she was little over eighteen at the time. George
Harford — that was Lord Illingworth’s name then
— George Harford met her. She knew nothing
about life. He — knew everything. He made this
girl love him. He made her love him so much that
she left ner father’s house with him one morning.
She loved him so much, and he had promised to
marry her! He had solemnly promised to marry
her, and she had believed him. She was very
young, and — and ignorant of what life really is.
But he put the marriage off from week to week,
and month to month. — She trusted in him all the
while. She loved him. — Before her child was
born — ^for she had a child — she implored him for
the child’s sake to marry her, that the child might
have a name, that her sin might not be visited on
the child, who was innocent. He refused. After
the child was born she left him, taking the child
away, and her life was ruined, and her soul
ruined, and all that was sweet, and good, and
pure in her ruined also. She suffered terribly —
she suffers now. She will always suffer. For her
there is no joy, no peace, no atonement. She is a
woman who drags a chain like a guilty thing. She

ACT III] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

165

is a woman who wears a mask, like a thing that is
a leper. The fire cannot purify her. The waters
cannot quench her anguish. Nothing can heal
her! no anodyne can give her sleep! no poppies
forgetfulness! She is lost! She is a lost soul! —
That is why I call Lord Illingworth a bad man.
That is why I don't want my boy to be with
him.

GERALD. My dear mother, it all sounds very
[tragic, of course. But I dare say the girl was just
is much to blame as Lord Illingworth was. — After
ill, would a really nice girl, a girl with any nice
eclings at all, go away from her home with a man
X) whom she was not married, and live with him as
lis wife? No nice girl would.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT [After a pause]. Gerald, I
withdraw all my objections. You are at liberty to
10 away with Lord Illingworth, when and where
iou choose.

GERALD. Dear mother, I knew you wouldn't
jtand in my way. You are the best woman God
?ver made. And, as for Lord Illingworth. I don't
3elieve he is capable of anything infamous or
3ase. I can't believe it of him — I can't.

HESTER [Outside]. Let me go! Let me go!

[Enter hester in terror, and rushes over to ger-
ILD and flings herself in his arms.]

HESTER. Oh! save me — save me from him!

GERALD. From whom?

HESTER. He has insulted me! Horribly in-
cited me ! Save me !

GERALD. Who? Who has dared ?

166

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ra

[lord ILLINGWORTH enters at back of stage.
HESTER breaks from Gerald’s arms and points to
him.]

GERALD [He is quite beside himself with rage and
indignation.]

Lord Illingworth, you have insulted the purest
thing on God’s earth, a thing as pure as my own
mother. You have insulted the woman I love
most in the world with my own mother. As there
is a God in heaven, I will kill you!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT [Rushing across and catching
hold of him.]. No! no!

GERALD [Thrusting her back]. Don’t hold me,
mother. Don’t hold me — I’ll kill him!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald !

GERALD. Let me go, I say!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Stop, Gerald, stop! He is
your own father.

[GERALD clutches Ms mother’s hands and looks
into her face. She sinks slowly on the ground in
shame, hester steals towards the door, lord Ill-
ingworth frowns and biles his lip. After a lime
GERALD raises his mother up, puts his arm around
her, and leads her from the room.]

Act-drop

ACT IV

Scene — Sitting-room at mes. arbethnot’s.
Large open French mndow at back, looking on to
garden. Doors R. c. and l. c.

[GERALD ARBiJTHNOT Writing at table.]

[Enter Alice r. c. followed by lady hunstanton

and MRS. ALLONBY.]

ALICE. Lady Hunstanton and Mrs. Allonby.

[Exit L. c.]

LADY HUNSTANTON. Good moming, Gerald.

GERALD [Rising]. Good morning, Lady Hun-
iitanton. Good moming, Mrs. Allonby.

LADY HUNSTANTON [Sitting doum]. We came to
inquire for your dear mother, Gerald. I hope she
is better?

GERALD. My mother has not come down yet,
Lady Hunstanton.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah, I am afraid the heat
was too much for her last niglit. I think there
must have been thunder in the air. Or perhaps it
was the music. Music makes one feel so romantic
—at least it always gets on one’s nerves.

MRS. ALLONBY. It’s the same thing, now-a-days.

LADY HUNSTANTON. I am SO glad I don’t know
what you mean, dear. I am afraid you mean
something wrong. Ah, I see you’re examining
Mrs. Arbuthnot’s pretty room. Isn’t it nice and
jld-fashioned?

167

168

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

MRS. ALLONBY [Surveying the room through her
lorgnette]. It looks quite the happy English home.

LADY HUNSTANTON. That’s jiist the word, dear;
that just describes it. One feels your mother’s
good influence in everything she has about her,
Gerald.

MRS. ALLONBY. Lord Illingworth says that all
influence is bad, but that a good influence is the
worst in the world.

LADY HUNSTANTON. When Lord Illingworth
knows Mrs. Arbuthnot^ better, he will change his
mind. I must certainly bring him here.

MRS. ALLONBY. I should like to see Lord Illing-
worth in a happy English home.

LADY HUNSTANTON. It would do him a great
deal of good, dear. Most women in London,
now-a-days, seem to furnish their rooms with
nothing but orchids, foreigners, and French novels.
But here we have the room of a sweet saint. Fresh
natural flowers, books that don’t shock one, pic-
tures that one can look at without blushing.

MRS. ALLONBY. But I like blushing.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, there is a good deal
to be said for blushing, if one can do it at the
proper moment. Poor dear Hunstanton used to
tell me I didn’t blush nearly often enough. But
then he was so very particular. He wouldn’t let
me know any of his men friends, except those
who were over seventy, like poor Lord Ashton:
who afterwards, by the way, was brought into the
Divorce Court. A most unfortunate case.

MRS. ALLONBY. I delight in men over seventy.

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

169

They always offer one the devotion of a lifetime.
I think seventy an ideal age for a man.

LADY HUNSTANTON. She is quite incorrigible,
Gerald, isn't she? By-the-by, Gerald, I hope your
dear mother will come and see me more often now.
You and Lord Illingworth start almost immediate-
ly, don’t you?

GERALD. I have given up my intention of being
Lord Illingworth’s secretary.

LADY HUNSTANTON. wSurcly not, Gerald! It
would be most unwise of you. What reason can
you have?

GERALD. I don’t think I should be suitable for
the post.

MRS. ALLONBY. I wish Lord Illingworth would
ask mo to be his secretary. But he says I am not
serious enough.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, you really
mustn’t talk like that in this house. Mrs. Arbuth-
not doesn’t know anything about the wicked so-
ciety in which we all live. She won’t go into it.
She is far too good. I consider it was a great hon-
our her coming to me last night. It gave quite an
atmosphere, of respectability to the party.

MRS. ALLONBY. Ah, that must have been what
you thought was thunder in the air.

LADY HUNSTANTON. My dear, how can you say
that? There is no resemblance between the two
things at all. But really, Gerald, what do you
mean by not being suitable?

GERALD. Lord Illingworth’s views of life and
mine are too different.

170

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

LADY HUNSTANTON. But, my dear Gerald, at
your age you shouldn’t have any views of life.
They arc quite out of place. You must be guided
by others in this matter. Lord Illingworth has
made you the most flattering offer, and travelling
with him you would see the world — as much of it,
at least, as one should look at — under the best
auspices possible, and stay with all the right
people, which is so important at this solemn
momcmt in your career.

GERALD. I don’t want to see the world: I’ve
seen enough of it.

MRS. ALLONBY. I hope you don’t think you
have exhausted life, Mr. Arbuthnot. When a
man says that one knows that life luis exhausted

him.

GERALD. I don’t wish to leave my mother.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Now, Gerald, that is pure
laziness on your part. Not leave your mother!
If I were your mother I would insist on your going.

[Enter Alice l. c.]

ALICE. Mrs. Arbuthnot’s compliments, my
lady, but she has a bad headache, and cannot see
any one this morning. [Exit R. c.]

LADY HUNSTANTON [Rising], A bad headache!
I am so sorry! Perhaps you’ll bring her up to
Hunstanton this afternoon, if she is better, Gerald.

GERALD. I am afraid not this afternoon. Lady
Hunstanton.

LADY HUNSTANTON. Well, to-moiTow, then.
Ah, if you had a father, Gerald, he wouldn’t let
you waste your life here. He would send you off

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

171

with Lord Illingworth at once. But mothers are
so weak. They give up to their sons in everything.
We are all heart, all heart. Come, dear, 1 must
call at the rectory and inquire for Mrs. Daubeny,
who, I am afraid, is far from well. It is wonderful
how the Archdeacon bears up, quite wonderful.
He is the most sympathetic of husbands. Quite a
model. Good-bye, Gerald, give my fondest love
to your mother.

MRS. ALLONBY. Good-byc, Mr. Arbuthnot.

GERALD. Good-bye.

[Exit LADY HUNSTANTON and MRS. ALLONBY.
GERALD sits doivu arid reads over his letter.]

GERALD. What name can I sign? I, who have
no right to any name. [Signs name, puts letter into
envelope, addresses it, and is about to seal it, when
Door L. c. opens, and MRS. arbuthnot enters,
GERALD lays down sealing-wax. Mother and son
look at each other.]

LADY HUNSTANTON [Through French uindow at
the hack]. Good-bye, iigain, Gerald. We are
taking the short cut across your pretty garden.
Now, remember my advice to you — start at once
with Lord Illingworth.

MRS. ALLONBY. Au revoir, Mr. Arbuthnot.
Mind you bring me back something nice from your
travels — not an Indian shawl — on no account an
Indian shawl. [Exeunt.]

GERALD. Mother, I have just WTitten to him .

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. To whom?

GERALD. To my father. I have written to tell
him to come here at four o'clock this afternoon.

172

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Iact iv

MSS. ARBUTHNOT. He shall not come here.
He shall not cross the threshold of my house.

GERALD. He must come.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Gerald, if you are going
away with Lord Illingworth, go at once. Go be-
fore it kills me : but don’t ask me to meet him.

GERALD. Mother, you don’t understand. Noth-
ing in the world would induce me to go away with
Lord Illingworth, or to leave you. Surely you
know me well enough for that. No; I have writ-
ten to him to say

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Wliat Can you have to say
to him?

GERALD. Can’t you guess, mother, what I have
written in this letter?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.

GERALD. Mother, surely you can. Think,
think what must be done, now, at once, within the
next few days.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. There is nothing to be done.

GERALD. I have written to Lord Illingworth
to tell him that he must marry you.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Many me?

GERALD. Mother, I will force him to do it.
The wrong that has been done you must be re-
paired. Atonement must be made. Justice may
be slow, rsother, but it comes in the end. In a
few days you shall be Lord Illingworth’s lawful
wife.

iftRS. ARBUTHNOT. But, Gerald

GERALD. I will insist upon his doing it. I wiD
Drake him do it; he will not dare to refuse.

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

173

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But, Gerald, it is I who re-
fuse. I will not marry Lord Illingworth.

GERALD. Not marry him? Mother!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not many him.

GERALD. But you don’t understand: it is for
your sake I am talking, not for mine. This mar-
riage, this necessai^?^ marriage, this mamage that,
for obvious reasons, must inevitably take place,
will not help me, will not give me a name that will
be really, rightly mine to bear. But surely it
will be something for you, that you, my mother,
should, however late, become the wife of the man
who is my father. Will not that be something?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not marry him.

GERALD. Mother, you must.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I will not. You talk of
atonement for a wrong done. What atonement
can be made to me? There is no atonement possi-
ble. I am disgraced : he is not. That is all. It is
the usual history of a man and a woman as it
usually happens, as it always happens. And the
ending is the ordinary ending. The woman suf-
fers. The man goes free.

GERALD. I don’t know if that is the ordinary
ending, mother: I hope it is not. But your life,
at any rate, shall not end like that. The man
shall make whatever reparation is possible. It is
not enough. It does not wipe out the past, I
know that. But at least it makes the future bet-
ter, better for you, mother.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I refuse to marry Lord Ill-
ingworth.

174

TEE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

GERALD. If he came to you himself and asked
you to be his wife you would give him a different
answer. Remember, he is my father.

MBS. ARBUTHNOT. If he came himself, which he
will not do, my answer would be the same. Re-
member, I am your mother.

GERALD. Mother, you make it terribly difficult
for me by talking like that, and I can't understand
why you won’t look at this matter from the right,
from the only proper standpoint. It is to take
away the bitterness out of your life, to take away
the shadow that lies on your name, that this mar-
riage must take place. There is no alternative:
and after the marriage you and I can go away to-
gether. But the marriage must take placx^ first.
It is a duty that you owe, not merely to yourself,
but to all other women — ^yes: to all the other wo-
men in the world, lest he betray more.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I owc nothing to other
women. There is not one of them to help me.
There is not one woman in the world to whom I
could go for pity, if I would take it, or for sympa-
thy, if I could win it. Women are hard on each
other. That girl, last night, good though she is,
fled from the room as though I were a tainted
thing. She was right. I am a tainted thing. But
my wrongs are my own, and I will bear them alone.
I must bear them alone. What have women who
have not sinned to do with me, or 1 with them?
We do not understand each other.

[Enter hester behind.]

GERALD. I implore you to do what I ask you.

4CT iv] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

176

MKS. ARBUTHNOT. What soii has ever asked
of his mother to make so hideous a sacrifice?
None.

GERALD. What mother has ever refused to
marry the father of her own child? None.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Let me be the first, then.
I will not do it.

GERALD. Mother, you believe in religion, and
you brought me up to believe in it also. Well,
surely your religion, the religion that you taught
me when I was a boy, mother, must tell you that
I am right. Y ou know it, you feel it.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I do not know it. I do not
feel it, nor will I ever stand before God’s altar and
ask God’s blessing on so hideous a mockery as a
marriage between me and George Harford. I will
not say the words the Church bids us to say. I
will not say them. I dare not. How could I
swear to love the man I loathe, to honour him
who wrought you dishonour, to obey him who, in
his mastery, made me to sin? No: marriage is a
sacrament for those who love each other. It is
not for such as him, or such as me. Gerald, to
save you from the world’s sneers and taunts I have
lied to the world. For twenty years I have lied to
the world. 1 could not tell the world the truth.
Who can, ever? But not for my own sake will I
lie to God, and in God’s presence. No, Gerald,
no ceremony. Church-hallowed or State-made,
shall ever bind me to George Harford. It may be
that I am too bound to him already, who, robbing
me, yet left me richer, so that in the mire of my

176

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

life, I found the pearl of price, or what I thought
would be so.

GERALD. I don’t understand you now.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Men don’t understand what
mothers are. I am no different from other
women except in the wrong done me and the
wrong I did, and my very heavy punishments and
great disgrace. And yet, to bear you I had to look
on death. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it.
Death fought with me for you. All women have
to fight with death to keep their children. Death,
being childless, wants our children from us.
Gerald, when you were naked I clothed you,
when you were hungry I gave you food. Night
and day all that long winter I tended you. No
office is too mean, no care too lowly for the thing
we women love — and oh! how I loved you. Not
Hannah Samuel more. And you needed love, for
you were weakly, and only love could have kept
you alive. Only love can keep anyone alive.
And boys arc careless often and without think-
ing give pain, and we always fancy that when
they come to man’s estate and know us better,
they will repay us. But it is not so. The world
draws them from our side, and they make friends
with whom they are happier than they are with
us, and have amusements from which we are
barred, and interests that arc not ours: and they
are unjust to us often, for when tliey find life
bitter they blame us for it, and when they find it
sweet we do not taste its sweetness with them. . . .
You made many friends and went into their

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

177

houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing
my secret, did not dare to follow, but stayed at
home and closed the door, shut out the sun and
sat in darkness. What should I have done in
honest households? My past was ever with me.
. . . And you thought I didn't care for the pleas-
ant things of life. I tell you I longed for them, but
did not dare to touch them, feeling I had no
right. You thought I was happier working
amongst the poor. That was my mission, you
imagined. It was not, but where else was I to go?
The sick do not ask if the hand that smoothes
their pillow is pure, nor the dying care if the lips
that touch their brow have known the kiss of sin.
It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to
them the love you did not need : lavished on them
a love that was not theirs. . . . And you thought
I spent too much of my time in going to Church,
and in Church duties. But where else could I
turn? God's house is the only house where sin-
ners are made welcome, and you were always in
my heart, Gerald, too much in my heart. For,
though day after day, at mom or even-song, I
have knelt in God's house, I have never repented
of my sin. How could I repent of my sin when you,
my love, were its fruit! Even now that you are
bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are
more to me than innocence. I would rather be
your mother — oh! much rather! — than have been
always pure. . . . Oh, don’t you see? don’t you
understand? It is my dishonour that has made
you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that has

178

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

bound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid
for you — the price of soul and body — that makes
me love you as I do. Oh, don’t ask me to do this
horrible thing. Child of my shame, be stiU the
child of my shame!

GERALD. Mother, I didn’t know you loved me
so much as that. And I will be a better son to
you than I have been. And you and 1 must never
leave each other . . . but, mother ... I can’t
help it . . . you must become my father’s wife.
You must marry him. It is your duty.

HESTER [Running forward and embracing MRS.
arbuthnot]. No, no: you shall not. That would
be real dishonour, the first you have ever known.
That would be real disgrace: the first to touch you.
Leave him and come with me. There are other
countries than England. . . .Oh 1 otlier countries
over sea, better, wiser, and less unjust lands.
The world is very wide and very big.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No, not for mc. For me the
world is shrivelled to a palm’s breadth, and where
I walk there arc thorns.

HESTER. It shall not be so. We shall some-
where find green valleys and fresh waters, and if
we weep, well, we shall weep together. Have we
not both loved him?

GERALD. Hcjster!

HESTER [Waving him hack]. Don’t, don’t!
You cannot love me at all, unless you love her
also. You cannot honour mc, unless she’s holier
to you. In her all womanliood is martyred. Not
she alone^ but all of us are stricken in her house.

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

179

GERALD. Hester, Hester, what shall I do?

HESTER. Do you rcspcct the man who is your
father?

GERALD. Respect him? I despise him! He is
infamous!

HESTER. I thank you for saving me from him
last night.

GERALD. x4h, that is nothing. I would die to
save you. But you don't tell me what to do now!

HESTER, Have I not thanked you for saving me?

GERALD. But what should I do?

HESTER. Ask your own heart, not mine. I
never had a mother to save, or shame.

MRS. ARBTTTiiNOT. Hc is hard — he is hard. Let
m(5 go away.

GERALD [Rushes aver and kneels down beside his
mother]. Mother, forgive me: I have been to
blame.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t kiss my hands: they
arc cold. My heart is cold : something has broken
it.

HESTER. Ah, don’t say that. Hearts live by
being wounded. T^lcasure may turn a heart to
stone, riches may make it callous, but sorrow —
oh, sorrow cannot break it. Besides, what sorrows
have you now? Why, at this moment you are more
dear to him than ever, dear though you have beetle
and oh! how dear you have been always. Ah! be
kind to him.

GERALD. You are my mother and my father all
in one. I need no second parent. It was for you
1 spoke, for you alone. Oh, say something,

180

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

mother. Have I but found one love to lose an-
other? Don’t tell me that. 0 mother, you are
cruel. [Gets up and flings himself sobbing on a
sofa,]

MRS. arbuthnot [To HESTER]. But has he
found indeed another love?

HESTER, You know I have loved him always.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But wc are very poor.

HESTER. Who, being loved, is poor? Oh, no
one. I hate my riches. They are a burden.
Let him share it with me.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we arc disgraced. We
rank among the outcasts. Gerald is nameless.
The sins of the parents should be visited on the
children. It is God’s law.

HESTER. I was wrong. God’s law is only Love.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT [Rises, and taking hester by
the hand, goes slowly over to where gerald is lying
on the sofa with his head buried in his hands. She
touches him and he looks up]. Gerald, I cannot
give you a father, but I have brought you a
wife.

GERALD. Mother, I am not worthy either of
her or you.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. So slie comes first, you are
worthy. And when you are away, Gerald. . . .
with . . . her — oh, think of me sometimes. Don’t
forget me. And when you pray, pray for me. We
should pray when we arc happiest, and you will be
happy, Gerald.

HESTER. Oh, you don’t think of leaving us?

GERALD. Mother, you won’t leave us?

'ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

181

MRS. ARBUTiiNOT. I might bring shame upon
you!

GERALD. Mother!

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. For a little then : and if you
let me, near you always.

HESTER [To MRS. ARBUTHNOT]. Come OUt with
US to the garden.

ims. ARBUTHNOT. Later on, later on.

[Exeunt hester and gerald.]

[MRS. ARBUTHNOT gocs towards door l. c. Stops
ai looking-glass oxer mantel-piece and looks into it,]

[Enter Alice r. c.]

ALICE. A gentleman to see you, ma'am.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Say I am not at home.
Show me the card. [Takes card from salver and
looks at it,] Say I will not see him.

[lord ILLINGWORTH enters, mrs. arbuthnot
see^s him in the glass and starts, but does not turn
round. Exit Alice.]

What can you have to say to me to-day, George
Harford? You can have nothing to say to me.
You must leave this house.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Hachel, Gerald knows
everything about you and me now, so some ar-
rangement must be come to that will suit us all
three. I assure you, he will find in me the most
charming and generous of fathers.

MRS. arbuthnot. My son may come in at any
moment. 1 sav<xl you last night. I may not be
able to save yoa again. My son feels my dis-
honour strongly, terribly strongly. I beg you to
go.

182

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

LORD ILLINGWORTH [Sitting down]. Ldist night
was excessively unfortunate. That silly Puritan
girl making a scene merely because I wanted to
kiss her. What harm is there in a kiss?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT [Turning round]. A kiss may
ruin a human life, George Harford. I know that,
I know that too well.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. We wou't discuss that at
present. What is of importance to-day, as yes-
terday, is still our son. I am extremely fond of
him, as you know, and odd though it may seem to
you, I admired his conduct last night immensely.
He took up the cudgels for that i)retty prude with
wonderful promptitude. He is just what I should
have liked a son of mine to be. Except that no
son of mine should ever take the side of the
Puritans: that is always an error. Now, what I
propose is this.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth, no propo-
sition of yours interests me.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. According to our ridicu-
lous English laws, I can't legitimise Gerald. But
I can leave him my property. Illingworth is en-
tailed, of course, but it is a tedious barrack of a
place. He can have Ashby, which is much pret-
tier, Harborough which has the best shooting in
the north of England, and the house in St. James
Square. What more can a gentleman desire in
this world?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Nothing more, I am quite
sure.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. As for a title, a title is

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

183

really rather a nuisance in these democratic days.
As George Harford I had everything 1 wanted.
Now I have merely everything that other people
want, wliich isn’t nearly so pleasant. Well, my
proposal is this.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I told you I was not inter-
ested, and I beg you to go.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. The boy is to be with you
for six months in the year, and with me for the
other six. That is perfectly fair, is it not? You
can have whatever allowance you like, and live
where you choose. As for your past, no one knows
anything about it except myself and Gerald.
There is the Puritan, of course, the Puritan in
white muslin, but she doesn’t count. She couldn’t
tell the stor>' without explaining that she objected
to being kissed, could she? And all the women
would think her a fool and the men think her a
bore. And you need not be afraid that Gerald
won’t be my heir. I needn’t tell you I have not
the slightest intention of marrying.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You come too late. My son
has no need of you. You are not necessary.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What do you mean, Ra-
chel?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. That you are not necessary
to Gerald’s career. He does not require you.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I do not Understand
you.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Look into the garden.
[lord ILLINGWORTH rises and goes towards window.]
You had better not let them see you: you bring

184

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

unpleasant memories, [lord Illingworth looks
out and starts,] She loves him. They love each
other. Wc arc safe from you, and we are going
away.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. WlCrC?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Wc Will iiot tcTl yoli, aiid if
you find us wc will not know you. You seem
surprised. What welcome would you get from the
girl whose lips you tried to soil, from the boy whose
life you have shamed, from the mother whose dis*
honour comes from you?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You havc growH hard,
Rachel

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I was too Weak once. It is
well for me that I have changed.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I was vGvy young at that
time. We men know" life too early.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. And we women know life
too late. That is the difference between men and
women. [A pause.]

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, I want my son.
My money may be of no use to him now. I may
be of no use to him, but I want my son. Bring us
together, Rachel. You can do it if you choose.
[Sees letter on table.]

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. There is no room in my
boy’s life for you. He is not interested in you.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Then why does he write to
me?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. What do you mean?

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What letter is this?
[Takes up letter.]

ACT iv] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

185

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. That — is notliing. Give it
to me.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is addrcsscd to me,

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are not to open it. I
forbid you to open it.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. And in Gerald's handwrit-
ing.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was not to have been sent.
It is a letter he wrote to you this morning before
he saw m(L But he is sorry now he wrote it, very
sorry. You are not to open it. Give it to me.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It belongs to me. [Opens it,
sits down and reads it slowly, MRS. arbuthnot
watches him all the time,] You have read this let-
ter, I suppose, Rachel?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. You know what is in it.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don't admit for a mo-
ment that the boy is right in what he says. I
don't admit that it is any duty of mine to marry
you. I deny it entirely. But to get my son back
I am ready — ^yes, I am ready to marry you, Ra-
chel — and to treat you always with the deference
and respect due to my wife. I will marry you as
soon as you choose. I give you my word of
honour.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You made that promise to
me once before and broke it.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I will kccp it now. And
that will show you that I love my son, at least as
much as you love him. For when I marry you,

186

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

Rachel, there are some ambitions I shall have to
surrender. Jligh ambitions too, if any ambition
is high.

MRS. ARBUTiixoT, I decline to marry you,
Lord Illingworth.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Arc you serious?

MRS. ARBXTTHNOT. Ycs.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Do toll nic yolir reasons.
They would intiTest me enormously.

MRS. ARBFTHNOT. I liavc already explained
them to my son.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I supposc they were in-
tensely sentimental, weren’t tlu^y? ^^ou women
live by your emotions and for them. You have no
philosophy of life.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are right. We women
live by our emotions and for them. By our pas-
sions, and for them, if you will. I have two pas-
sions, Lord Illingworth : my love of him, my hate
of you. You cannot kill those. They feed each
other

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Wliat sort of love is that
which needs to have hate as its brother?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is the sort of love I have
for Gerald. Do you think that terrible? Well,
it is terrible. All love is terrible. All love is a
tragedy. I loved you once, Lord Illingworth.
Oh, what a tragedy for a woman to have loved
you!

LORD ILLINGWORTH. So you really refuse to
marry me?

MBS. ARBUTHNOT. Ycs.

ACT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

187

LORD ILLINGWORTH. Because you hate me?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. And docs my son hate me
as you do?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am glad of that, Rachel.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He merely despises you.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. What a pity! What a
pity for him, I mean.

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t be deceived, George.
Children begin by loving their parents. After a
time they judge them. Itarely if ever do they for-
^ve them.

LORD ILLINGWORTH [Reads letter over again, very
slowly]. May I ask by what arguments you made
the boy who wrote this letter, this beautiful, pas-
sionate letter, believe that you should not marry
his father, the father of your own child?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is not I who made him see
it. It was another.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. 'Woni fin-de-sitcU person?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. The Puritan, Lord Illing-
worth. [A pause.]

LORD ILLINGWORTH [Winces, then rises slowly
and goes over to table where his hat and gloves are.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT is standing close to the table. He
picks up one of the gloves and begins putting it on].
There is not much then for me to do here, Rachel?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Nothing.

LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is good-bye, is it?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT. For ever, I hope, this time,
Lord Illingworth.

188

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act it

1X)ED ILLINGWORTH. How curious! Ah! this
moment you look exactly as you looked the night
you left me twenty years ago. You have just the
same expression in your mouth. Upon my word,
Reichel, no woman ever loved me as you did.
Why, you gave yourself to me like a flower, to do
anything I liked with. You were the prettiest of
playthings, the most fascinating of small ro-
mances. . . . [Pulls out watch.] Quarter to two!
Must be strolling back to Hunstanton. Don’t sup-
pose I shall see you there again. I’m sorry, I am,
really. It’s been an amusing experience to have
met amongst people of one’s own rank, and
treated quite seriously too, one’s mistress, and
one’s

[mbs. abbuthnot snatches up glove and strikes
LORD ILLINGWORTH ocross the face mth it. lord
ILLINGWORTH starts. He is dazed by the insult of
his punishment. Then he controls himself, and
goes to toindow and looks out at kis son. Sighs, and
leases the room.]

MRS. ABBUTHNOT [FaUs sobbing on the sofa]. He
would have said it. He would have said it.

[Enter gerald and hester / row the garden.]

GERALD. Well, dear mother. You never came
out after all. So we have come in to fetch you.
Mother, you have not been crying? [Kneels down
beside her.]

MRS. ABBUTHNOT. My boy! My boy! My
boy ! [Running her fingers through his hair.]

HESTER [Coming over]. But you have two chil-
dren now. You’U let me be your daughter?

ICT IV] A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE

189

MRS. ARBUTHNOT [Looking up]. Would you
choose me for a mother?

HESTER. You of all womcu I have ever known.

[They move towards the door leading into garden
with their arms around each other's waist, gerald
goes to table L. c. for his hat. On turning round he
sees LORD Illingworth's glove lying on the floor,
and picks it up.\

GERALD. Hallo, mother, whose glove is this?
You have had a visitor. Who was it?

MRS. ARBUTHNOT [Turning round]. Oh! no one.
No one in particular. A man of no importance.

Curtain

THE IMPORTANCE OF
BEING EARNEST

The acting rights to **The Importance of Being
SamtsV' are held by Mr. Charles Frohman, HmjAre
Theatre Building, New York City, to whom appli-
eaiion must be made for Ote right to perform, trithsr
by amateurs or profeasionaU*

To

jlElobert PalbfaDin

IN APPRECIATION
IN AFFECTION

ACT in] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 269

CECILY. Certainly not.

GWENDOLEN. Mr. Worthing, I have something
very particular to ask you. Much depends on
your reply.

CECILY. Gwendolen, your common sense is in-
valuable. Mr. MoncriefT, kindly answer me the
following question: Why did you pretend to be
my guardian’s brother?

ALGERNON. Ill Order that I might have an op-
portunity of meeting you.

CECILY {To GWENDOLEN]. That certainly seems
a satisfactory e.xplanation, does it not?

GWENDOLEN. Ycs, dear, if you can believe
him.

CECILY. I don’t. But that does not affect the
wonderful beauty of his answer.

GWENDOLEN. Truc. In matters of grave im-
portance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing.
Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to
me for pretending to have a brother? Was it in
order that you might have an opportunity of com-
ing up to town to see me as often as possible?

JACK. Can you doubt it. Miss Fairfax?

GWENDOLEN. I have the gravest doubts upon
the subject. But I intend to crush them. This is
not the moment for German scepticism. [Mooing
to CECILY.] Their explanations appear to be quite
satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s. That
seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.

CECILY. I am more than content with what Mr.
Moncrieff said. His voice alone inspires one with
absolute credulity.

270

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

GWENDOLEN. Then you think we should for-
give them?

CECILT. Yes. I mean no.

GWENDOLEN. True! I had forgotten. There
are principles at stake tliat one cannot surrender.
Which of us should tell them? The task is not a
pleasant one.

CECILY. Could we not both speak at the same
time?

GAVENDOLEN. An excellent idea! I nearly al-
waj^s speak at the same time as other people. Will
j^ou take the time from me?

CECILY. Certainly. [gwendoij:n beats time
with uplifted finger.]

GWENDOLEN and CECILY [Speaking together].
Your Christian names are still an insuperable
barrier! That is all!

JACK and ALGERNON [Speaking together]. Our
Christian names! Is that all? But we are going
to be christened this afternoon.

GWENDOLEN [To JACK]. For my sake you are
prepared to do this terrible thing?

JACK. I am.

CECILY [To ALGERNON). To please me you are
ready to face this fearful ordeal?

ALGERNON. I am!

GWENDOLEN. How absurd to talk of the equal-
ity of the sexes! Where questions of self-sacrifice
are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.

JACK. We are. [Clasps hands vrith Algernon.)

CECILY. They have moments of physical cour-
age of which we women know absolutely nothing.

ACT III] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 271

GWENDOLEN \To JACK]. Darling!

ALGERNON [To CECILY]. Darling! [They Jail
into each other's arms.]

[Enter merriman. When he enters he coughs
loudly, seeing the situation.]

MERRIMAN. Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!

JACK. Good heavens!

[Enter lady Bracknell. The couples separate
in alarm. Exit merriman.]

LADY BRACKNELL. Gwendolen! What does
this mean?

GWENDOLEN. Merely that I am engaged to be
married to Mr. Worthing, mamma.

LADY BRACKNELL. Comc here. Sit down. Sit
down immediately. Hesitation of any kind is a
sign of mental decay in the young, of physical
Afeakness in the old. [Turns to jack.] Apprised,
sir, of my daughter’s sudden flight by her trusty
mr*d, whose confidence I purcliased by means of
a tmall coin, I followed her at once by a luggage
crain. Her unluippy father is, I am glad to say,
under the imiircssion that she is attending a more
than usually lengthy lecture by the University Ex-
tension Scheme on the Influence of a Permanent
Income on Thought. I do not propose to unde-
ceive him. Indeed I have never undeceived him
on any question. I would consider it wrong.
But of course, you will clearly understand that all
communication between yourself and my daugh-
ter must cease immediately from this mo-
ment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I
am firm.

272

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

JACK. I am engaged to be mairied to Gwendo-
len, Lady Bracknell!

LADY BRACKNELL. You arc nothing of the kind,
sir. And now, as regards Algernon! . . . Alger-
non!

ALGERNON. Ycs, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL. May I ask if it is in this
house that your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury re-
sides?

ALGERNON [Stammering], Oh! No! Bunbury
doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere else at
present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.

LADY BRACKNELL. Dead! When did Mr. Bun-
bury die? His death must have been extremely
sudden.

ALGERNON [Afr%]. Oh! I killed Bunburj? this
afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this after-
noon.

LADY BRACKNELL. What did he die of?

ALGERNON. Bunbuiy? Oh, he was quite ex-
ploded.

LADY BRACKNELL. Exploded! Was he the vic-
tim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware
that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legisla-
tion. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.

ALGERNON. My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he
was found out! The doctors found out that Bun-
bury could not live, that is what I mean — so Bun-
bury died.

LADY BRACKNELL. He seems to have had great
confidence in the opinion of his physicians. I am
glad, however, that he made up his mind at the

ACT nil IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 273

last to some definite course of action, and acted
xmder proper medical advice. And now that we
have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I
ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young person whose
hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what
seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

JACK. That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my
ward, [lady bracknell bows coldly to cecily.]
ALGERNON. I am engaged to be married to
Cecily, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL. I b^ your pardon?

CECILY. Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be
married. Lady Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL [With a sMver, crossing to the
sofa and sitting down]. I do not know whether
there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of
this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the mun-
ber of engagements that go on seems to me con-
siderably above the proper average that statistics
have laid down for our guidance. I think some
preliminary enquiry on my part would not be out
of place. Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all
connected with any of the larger railway stations
in London? I merely desire information. Until
yesterday I had no idea that there were any fam-
ilies or persons whose origin was a Terminus.
[jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.]
JACK [In a clear, cold voice]. Miss Cardew is the
granddaughter of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of
149, Belgrave Square, S.W. ; Gervase Park, Dork-
ing, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.

LADY BRACKNELL. That soimds not unsatis-

274

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

factory. Three addresses always inspire confi-
dence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have
I of their authenticity?

JACK. I have carefully preserved the Court
Guides of the period. They are open to your in-
spection, Lady Bracknell.

LADY BRACKNELL [Grimly], I have known
strange errors in that publication.

JACK. Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are
Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby.

LADY BRACKNELL. Markby, Markby, and
Markby? A firm of the very highest position in
their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the
Mr. Markbys is occasionally to be seen at dinner
parties. So far I am satisfied.

JACK [Very irritably], I low extremely kind of
you. Lady Bracknell! I have also in my posses-
sion, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of
Miss Cardew’s birth, baptism, whooping cough,
registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the
measles; both the German and the English variety.

LADY BRACKNELL. Ah! A life Crowded with
incident, I see; though perhaps somewhat too ex-
citing for a young girt. I am not myself in favour
of premature experiences. [Rises, l(X)ks at her
watch,] Gwendolen! the time approaches for our
departure. We have not a moment to lose. As a
matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask
you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune?

JACK. Oh ! about a hundred and thirty thousand
pounds in the F\mds. That is all. Good-bye,
Lady Bracknell. So pleased to have seen you.

ACT HI] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 275

LADY BRACKNELL [Silting dowu again], A mo-
ment, Mr. Worthing. A hundred and thirty
thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss Car-
dew seems to me a most cdtractive young lady,
now that 1 look at her. I'ew girls of the present
day have any really solid qualities, any of the
qualities that last, and improve with time. We
live, I regret to say, in an age of sirnfaces. [To
CEC’iLY.] Come over here, dear, [cecily goes
across.] Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple,
and your hair seems almost as Nature might have
left it. But we can soon alter all that. A thor-
oughly experienced French maid produces a
really marvellous result in a very brief space of
time. I remember recommending one to young
Lady Lancing, and after three months her own
husband did not know her.

JACK [Aside]. And after six months nobody
Knew her.

lady BRACKNELL [Glares at jack for a few mo-
ments. Then bends, with a practised smile, to
CECILY.] Kindly turn round, sweet child, [cecily
turns completely round.] No, the side view is what
I want. [(a':ciLY presents her profile.] Yes, quite
as I expected. There are distinct social possibili-
ties in your profile. The two weak points in our
age are its want of principle and its want of pro-
file. The chin a little higher, dear. Style
largely depends on the way the chin is worn.
They arc worn very high, just at present.
Algernon!

ALGERNON. Y es, Auiit Augusta I

276

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

LADY BRACKNELL. There are distinct social
possibilities in Miss Cardew’s profile.

ALGERNON. Cecily is the sweetest, dearest,
prettiest girl in the whole world. And I don’t care
twopence about social possibilities.

LADY BRACKNELL. Nevcr spcak disrespectfully
of Society, Algernon. Only people who can’t get
into it do that. {To cecily.] Dear child, of
course you know that Algernon has nothing but
his debts to depend upon. But I do not approve
of mercenary marriages. When I married Lord
Bracknell I had no fortune of any kind. But I
never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to
stand in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my
consent.

ALGERNON. Thank you. Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL. Cecily, you may kiss me!

CECILY [Kisses her]. Thank you. Lady Brack-
neU.

LADY BRACKNELL. You may also address me as
Aunt Augusta for the future.

CECILY. Thank you. Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL. The marriage, I think, had
better take place quite soon.

ALGERNON. Thank you. Aunt Augusta.

CECILY. Thank you. Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL. To speak frankly, I am not
in favour of long engagements. They give people
the opportunity of finding out each other’s char-
acter before marriage, which I think is never ad-
visable.

JACK. I beg your pardon for interrupting you.

ACT III] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 277

Lady Bracknell, but this engagement is quite out
of the question. I am Miss Cardcw's guardian,
and she cannot marry without my consent until
she comes of age. That consent I absolutely de-
cline to give.

LADY BRACKNELL. Upon what grounds, may I
ask? Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say
an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has
nothing, but he looks everything. What more can
one desire?

JACK. It pains me very much to have to speak
frankly to you. Lady Bracknell, about your
nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at all
of his moral character. I suspect him of being un-
truthful. [ALGERNON and CECILY look at him in
indignant amazement.]

LADY BRACKNELL. Untruthful! My nephew
Algernon? Impossible! He is an Oxonian.

JACK. I fear there can be no possible doubt
about the matter. This afternoon, during my
temporary absence in London on an important
question of romance, he obtained admission to my
house by means of the false pretence of being my
brother. Under an assumed name he drank, Fve
just been informed by my butler, an entire pint
bottle of my Perrier- Jouet, Brut, '89; a wine I
was specially reserving for myself. Continuing his
disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course
of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my
only ward. He subsequently stayed to tea, and
devoured every single muffin. And what makes
his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was

278

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

perfectly well aware from the first that I have no
brother, that I never had a brother, and that 1
don't intend to have a brother, not even of any
kind. I distinctly told him so myself yesterday
afternoon.

LADY BRACKNELL. Alicm ! Mr. Worthing, after
careful consideration I have decided entirely to
overlook my nephew’s conduct to you.

JACK. That is very generous of you, Lady
Bracknell. My own decision, liowever, is unalter-
able. I decline to give my consent.

LADY BRACKNELL [To CECILY]. Couie here,
sweet child, [cecily goes over]. How old are you,
dear?

CECILY. Well, I am really only eighteen, but I
always admit to twenty when 1 go to evening
parties.

LADY BRACKNELL. You are perfectly right in
making some slight alteration. Indeed, no wo-
man should ever be quite accurate about her age.
It looks so calculating. . . . [/n a meditative
manner.] Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at
evening parties. Well, it will not be very long be-
fore you are of age and free from the restraints of
tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s con-
sent is, after all, a matter of any importance.

JACK. Pray excuse me. Lady Bracknell, for
interrupting you again, but it is only fair to teU
you that according to the terms of her grand-
father’s will Miss Cardew does not come legally of
age till she is thirty-five.

LADY BRACKNELL. That does not seem to me

ACT III] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 279

to be a grave objection. Thirty-five is a very at-
tractivii age. London society is full of women of
the very highest birth who have, of their own free
choice, remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dum-
bleton is an instance in point. To my own
knowledge she has been thirty-five cvit since she
arrived at the age of forty, which was many years
ago now. 1 sec no reason why our dear Cecily
should not be even still more attractive at the age
you mention than she is at present. There will be
a laige accumulation of property.

CECILY. Algy, could you wait for me till I was
thirty-five?

ALGERNON. Of coursc I could, Cecily. You
know I could.

CECILY. Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I
couldn’t wait all that time. I hate waiting even
five minutes for anybody. It always makes me
rather cross. I am not punctual myself, I know,
but 1 do like punctuality in others, and waiting,
even to be married, is quite out of the question.

ALGERNON. Then what is to be done, Cecily?

CECILY. I don’t know', Mr. MoncrielT.

LADY BRACKNELL. My dear Mr. Worthing, as
Miss Cardew states positively that she cannot
wait till she is thirty-five — a remark which I am
bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat im-
patient nature — I would beg of you to reconsider
your decision.

JACK. But my dear I^dy Bracknell, the matter
is entirely in your own hands. The moment you
consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will

280

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance
with my ward.

LADY BRACKNELL [Rising and draining herself
up]. You must be quite aware that what you pro-
pose is out of the question.

JACK. Then a passionate celibacy is all that any
of us can look forward to.

LADY BRACKNELL. That is iiot the destiny I
propose for Gwendolen. Algernon, of course, can
choose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.] Come
dear; [Gwendolen rises] we have already missed
five, if not six, trains. To miss any more might
expose us to comment on the platform.

[Enter dr. chasuble.]

CHASUBLE. Everything is quite ready for the
christenings.

LADY BRACKNELL. The christenings, sir! Is not
that somewhat premature?

CHASUBLE [Looking rather puzzled, and pointing
to JACK and Algernon]. Both these gentlemen
have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.

LADY BRACKNELL. At their age? The idea is
grotesque and irreligious! Algernon, I forbid you
to be baptised. I will not hear of such excesses.
Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he
learned that that was the way in which you wasted
your time and money.

CHASUBLE. Am I to Understand then that there
are to be no christenings at all this afternoon?

JACK. I don’t think that, as things are now, it
would be of much practical value to either of us.
Dr. Chasuble.

ACT ml IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 281

CHASUBLE. I am grieved to hear such senti-
ments from you, Mr. Worthing. They savour of
the heretical views of the Anabaptists, views that
I have completely refuted in four of my unpub-
lished sermons. However, as your present mood
seems to be one peculiarly secular, I will return to
the church at once. Indeed, I have just been in-
formed by the pew-opener that for the last horn
and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in
the vestry.

LADY BRACKNELL [Starting]. Miss Prism! Did
I hear you mention a Miss Prism?

CHASUBLE. Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my
way to join her.

LADY BRACKNELL. Pray allow me to detain you
for a moment. This matter may prove to be one
of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself.
Is this Miss Prism a female of repellant aspect,
remotely connected with education?

CHASUBLE [Somewhat indignantly]. She is the
most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of
respectability.

LADY BRACKNELL. It is obviously the same per-
son. May I ask what position she holds in your
household?

CHASUBLE [Severely], I am a celibate, madam.

JACK [Interposing], Miss Prism, Lady Brack-
nell, has been for the last three years Miss Car-
dew’s esteemed governess and valued companion.

LADY BRACKNELL. In Spite of what I hear of
her, I must see her at once. Let her be sent
for.

282

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act nr

CHASUBLE [Looking off]. She approaches; she
is nigh.

[Enter miss prism hurriedly,]

MISS PRISM. I was told you expected me in the
vestry, dear Canon. I have been waiting for you
there for an hour and three-quarters. [Catches
sight of LADY BRACKNELL, who has fixed her with a
stony glare, miss prism grows pale and quails.
She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]
LADY BRACKNELL [In a scverc, judicial voice].
Prism! [miss prism bows her head in shame.]
Come here. Prism! [miss prism approaches in a
humble manner.] Prism! Where is tliat baby?
[General consternation. The Canon starts back in
horror. Algernon and jack pretend to be anxious
to shield cecily and Gwendolen from hearing the
details of a terrible public scandal.] Tw^cnty-cight
years ago. Prism, you left Lord Bracknells house,
Number 104, Upper Crosvenor Street, in charge
of a perambulator that contained a baby, of the
male sex. You never returned. A few weeks
later, through the elaborate investigations of the
Metropolitan police, the perambulator was discov-
ered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote
corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript
of a three-volume novel of more than usually re-
volting sentimentality, [mlss prism starts in in-
voluntary indignation.] But the baby was not
there! [Everyone looks at miss prism.] Prism;
Where is that baby? [A pause.}
miss prism. Lady Bracknell, I admit with
shame that I do not know. I only wish I did.

ACT III] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 283

The plain facts of the case are these. On the morn-
ing of the day you mention, a day that is for ever
branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to
take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also
with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag
in which I had intended to place the manuscript
of a work of fiction that 1 had written during my
few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental
abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself,
I deposited the manuscript in the bassinette, and
placed the baby in the hand-bag.

JACK [Who has been listening attentively]. But
where did you deposit the hand-bag?

MISS PRISM. Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

JACK. Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small
importance to me. I insist on knowing where you
deposited the hand-bag that contained that in-
fant.

MISS PRISM. I left it in the cloak-room of one of
the larger railway stations in London.

JACK. What railway station?

MISS PRISM [Quite crushed], Victoria. The
Brighton line. [Si7iks into a chair.]

JACK. I must retire to my room for a moment.
Gwendolen, wait here for me.

GWENDOLEN. If you are not too long, I will
wait here for you all my life.

[Exit JACK in great excitement.]

CHASUBLE. What do you think this means,
Lady Bracknell?

LADY BRACKNELL. I dare not even suspect, Dr
Chasuble. I need hardly tell you that in fam-

284

THE PLAYS OF OSCAE WILDE [act hi

ilies of high position strange coincidences are not
supposed to occur. They are hardly considered
the thing.

[Noises heard overhead as if someone was throwing
trunks about. Everyone looks up.]

CECILY. Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

CHASUBLE. Your guardian has a very emotional
nature.

LADY BRACKNELL. This noisc is extremely un-
pleasant. It sounds as if he was having an argu-
ment. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are
always vulgar, and often convincing.

CHASUBLE [Looking up]. It has stopped now.
[The noise is redoubled.]

LADY BRACKNELL. I wish he would airivc at
some conclusion.

GWENDOLEN. This suspense is terrible. I hope
it will last.

[Enter jack with a hand-bag of black leather in
his hand.]

JACK [Rushing over to miss prism]. Is this the
hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examine it carefully be-
fore you speak. The happiness of more than one
life depends on your answer.

MISS prism [Calmly]. It seems to be mine. Yes,
here is the injury it received through the upsetting
of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and hap-
pier days. Here is the stain on the lining caused
by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an
incident that occurred at Leamington. And here,
on the lock, are my initials. I had forgotten that
in an extravagant mood I had had them placed

ACT ml IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 285

there. The bag is undoubtedly mine. I am de-
lighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to
me. It has been a great inconvenience being
without it all these years.

JACK [In a pathetic voice]. Miss Prism, more is
restored to you than this hand-bag. I was the
baby you i)la(*ed in it.

MISS PRISM [Amazed]. You?

JACK [Embracing her]. Yes . . . mother!

MISS PRISM [Recoiling in indignant astonishment].
Mr. Worthing! I am unmarried!

JACK. Unmarried ! I do not deny that is a seri-
ous blow. But after all, who has the right to cast
a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot
repentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should
there be one law for men, and another for women ^
Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace her again.]

MISS PRISM [Still more indignant]. Mr. Worthing,
there is some error. [Pointing to lady bracknell.]
There is the lady who can tell you who you really
are.

jack [After a pause]. Lady Bracknell, I hate to
seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me
who I am?

lady BRACKNELL. I am afraid that the news I
have to give you will not altogether please you.
You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff,
and consequently Algernon’s elder brother.

JACK. Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a
brother after all. I knew I had a brother! I al-
ways said I had a brother! Cecily, — how could
you have ever doubted that I had a brother.

286

THE PLAYS OP OSCAR WILDE [act ra

[Seizes hold of Algernon.] Dr. Chasuble, my un-
fortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate
brother. Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother.
Algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to
treat me with more respect in the future. You
have never behaved to me like a brother in all
your life.

ALGERNON. Well, not till to-day, old boy, I
admit. I did my best, however, though I was out
of practice. [Shakes hands.]

GW^ENDOLEN [To JACK]. My owii! But what
own are you? What is your Cdiristian name, now
that you have become someone else?

JACK. Good heavens! . . . 1 had quite forgotten
that point. Your decision on the subject of my
lAame is irrevocable, I suppose?

GWENDOLEN. I never change, except in my
affections.

CECILY. What a noble nature you have, Gwen-
dolen !

JACK. Then the question had better be cleared
up at once. Aunt Augusta, a moment. At the
time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag,
had I been christened already?

LADY BRACKNELL. Evcry luxury that money
could buy, including christening, had been lav-
ished on you by your fond and doting parents.

JACK. Then I was christened ! That is settled.
Now, what name was I given? Let me know the
worst.

LADY BRACKNELL. Being the eldest son you
were naturally christened after your father.

ACT III] IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST 287

JACK [Irritably]. Yes, but what was my father's
Christian name?

LADY BRACKNELL [Meditatively]. I cannot at
the present moment recall what the General's
Christian name was. But 1 have no doubt he had
one. He was eccentric, I admit. But only in
later years. And that was the result of the Indian
climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other
things of that kind.

JACK. Algy! Can’t you recollect what our
father’s Christian name was?

ALGERNON. My dear boy, we were never even
on speaking tenns. He died before I was a year
old.

JACK. His name would appear in the Army
Lists of the period, T sui)pose. Aunt Augusta?

LADY BRACKNELL. The (Jeneral was essentially
a man of peace, except in his domestic life. But
I have no doubt his name would appear in any
military directory.

JACK. The Army Lists of the last forty years
arc here. Thcwse delightful records should have
been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and
tears the books out.] M. Generals .... Mallam,
Maxbohin, Magley, what ghastly names they have
— Markby, Migwsby, Mobbs, MoncriefY! Lieuten-
ant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel,
General 1869, Christian names, Ernest John.
[Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite
calmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen, my
name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernest
after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.

288

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act m

LADY BRACKNELL. Ycs, I remember that the
General was called Ernest. I knew I had some
particular reason for disliking the name.

GWENDOLEN. Emest! My own Ernest! I felt
from the first that you could have no other name!

JACK. Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a
man to find out suddenly that all his life he has
been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you
forgive me?

GWENDOLEN. I can. For I feel that you are
sure to change.

JACK. My own one !

CHASUBLE [To MISS PRISM]. Lsetitia! [Em-
braces her.]

MISS PRISM [Enihtisiaslically]. Frederick! At
last!

ALGERNON. Cccily! [Embraces her.] At last!

JACK. Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!

LADY BRACKNELL. My ne})hew, you seem to be
displaying signs of triviality.

JACK. On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, Fve
now realised for the first time in my life the vital
Importance of Being Earnest.

Tableau

Curtain

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

The aetiriQ rights to *An Ideal Husband' are held by
Mr. Charles Frohman^ Empire Theatre Building, New
York City, to whom application mu&i be made for the
tight to perform, either by amateurs or professionals,,

To

Jfranfe Harris:

A SLIGHT TRIBUTE TO
aiS POWER AND DISTINCTION
AS AN ARTIST

jHIS CHIVALRY AND NOBILITL"
AM A FRIEND

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

London: Theatre Royal, Haymarket: Sole Lessee^
Mr. Herbert Beerbohm Tree: Managers, Mr.
Lewis Waller and Mr. H. H. Morcll,
January 3, 1895.

Characters

THE EARL OF CAVERSHAM

VISCOUNT GORING

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN

VICOMTE DE NANJAC

MR. MONTFORD

PHIPPS

MASON

JAMES (Footman)

HAROLD (Footman)

LADY CHILTERN
LADY MARKBY
COUNTESS OF BASILDON
MRS. MARCHMONT
MISS MABEL CHILTERN
MRS. CHEVELEY

Mr. Alfred Bishop
Mr. Chas. H. Hawtrey
Mr. Lewis Waller
Mr. Cosmo Stuart
Mr. Harry Stanford
Mr. C. H. Brookfield
Mr. H. Deane
Mr. Charles Meyrick
Mr. Goodhart
Miss Julia Neilson
Miss Fanny Brough
Miss Vane Feathers ton
Miss Helen Forsyth
Miss Maude Millett
Miss Florence West

The Scenes of the Play
Act I The Octagon Room in Sir Robert ChiU
tern’s House in Grosvenor Square.
Act II Moming-Room in Sir Robert Chiltern’s^
House.

Act III The Library of Lord Goring’s House in
Curzon Street.

Act IV , Same as Act 11.

Time — The Present.

Place — London.

The Action of the Play is completed within
twenty-four hours.

293

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

ACT I

Scene — The octagon room at sra eobeet chil-
teen’s house in Grosvenor Square.

[The room is brilliantli/ lighted and full of guests.
At the top of the staircase stands lady chilteen, a
woman of grave Greek beauty, about twenty-seven
years of age. She receives the guests as they come up.
Over the well of the staircase hangs a great chandelier
with wax lights, which illumine a large eighteenth-
century French tapestry — representing the Triumph
of Love, from a design by Boucher — that is stretched
on the staircase wall. On the right is the entrance to
the music-room. The sound of a string quartette is
faintly heard. The entrance on the left leads to
other reception-rooms, mrs. marchmont and lady
BASILDON, two very pretty women, are seated together
on a Louis Seize sofa. They are types of exquisite
fragility. Their affectation of manner has a delicate
charm. Watteau would have loved to paint them.]

MRS. MARCHMONT. Going on to the Hartlocks’
to-night, Olivia?

LADY BASii.DON. I suppose SO. Are you?

MRS. MARCHMONT. Yes. Hombly tedious par-
ties they give, don’t they?

295

296

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LADY BASILDON. Horribly tedious! Never
know why I go. Never know why I go anywhere.

MKS. MARCHMONT. I come here to be educated.

LADY BASILDON. Ah! I hate being educated !

MRS. MARCHMONT. So do I. It puts one almost
on a level with the commercial classes, doesn’t it?
But dear Gertrude Chiltern is always telling me
that I should have some serious purpose in life.
So I come here to try to find one.

LADY BASILDON [Looking round through her lor-
gnette]. I don’t see anybody here to-night whom
one could possibly call a serious purpose. The
man who took me in to dinner talked to me about
his wife the whole time.

MRS. MARCHMONT. How vcry trivial of him!

LADY BASILDON. Terribly trivial! What did
your man talk about?

MRS. MARCHMONT. About myself.

LADY BASILDON [Languidty]. And were you in-
terested?

MRS. MARCHMONT [Shaking her head]. Not in the
smallest degree.

LADY BASILDON. What martyrs we are, dear
Margaret!

MRS. MARCHMONT [Rising]. And how well it be-
comes us, Olivia !

[They rise and go towards the music-room. The
VI COMTE DE NANJAC, a young atlachd known for his
neckties and his Anglomania, approaches with a low
bow, and enters into conversation.]

iHASON[Announcingguestsfromthe topofthe stair-
case]. Mr. and Lady JaneBarford. Lord Caversham.

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

297

[Enter lord caversham, an old gentleman of
seventy, wearing the riband and star of the Garter. A
fine Whig type. Rather like a portrait by Lawrence.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Good evening, Lady Chil-
tern! Has my good-for-nothing young son been
here?

LADY CHiLTERN [Smiling]. I don't think Ijord
Goring has arrived yet.

MABEL CHILTERN [Comifig Up to LORD CAVER-
SHAM]. Why do you call Lord Goring good-for-
nothing?

[MABEL CHILTERN is a perfect example of the Eng-
lish type of prettinesSy the apple-blossom type. She
has all the fragrance and freedom of a flower. There
is ripple after ripple of sunlight in her hair, and the
little mouthy with its parted lipSy is expectanty like the
mouth of a child. She has the fascinating tyranny
of youthy and the astonishing courage of innocence.
To sane people she is not reminiscent of any work of
art. But she is really like a Tanagra statuettey and
would be rather annoyed if she were told so.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Because he leads such an
idle life.

MABEL CHILTERN. How Can you say such a
thing? Why, he rides in the Row at ten o'clock in
the morning, goes to the Opera three times a week,
changes his clothes at least five times a day, and
dines out every night of the season. You don't
call that leading an idle life, do you?

LORD CAVERSHAM [Looking at her with a kindly
twinkle in his eyes]. You are a very charming
young lady!

2g8

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MABEL CHILTERN. How sweet of you to say
that, Lord Caversham ! Do come to us more of-
ten. Y ou know we are always at liome on Wednes-
days, and you look so well with your star!

LORD CAVERSHAM. Ncvcr go an>n«rhere now.
Sick of London Society. Shouldn’t mind being
introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on
the right side. Rut object strongly to being sent
down to dinner with my wife’s milliner. Never
could stand Lady Caversham ’s bonnets.

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh, I lovc Londoii Society!
1 think it has immensely improved. It is entirely
composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant
lunatics. Just what Society sliould be.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! Which is Goring?
Beautiful idiot, or the other thing?

MABEL CHILTERN [Gravely], 1 have been obliged
for the present to put Lord Goring into a class
quite by himself. But he is developing charm-
ingly!

LORD CAVERSHAM. Into what?

MABEL CHILTERN [With a little curtsey], I hope
to let you know veiy soon, Lord Caversham!

MASON [Announcing guests]. Lady Markby.
Mrs. Cheveley. ^

[Enter lady markby and mrs. cheveley. lady
MARKBY is a pleasant, kindly, popular woman, with
gray hair a la marquise and good lace, mbs.
CHEVELEY, who accompanies her, is tall and rather
slight. Lips very thin and highly-coloured, a line of
smrlet on a pallid face, Venetian red hair, aquiline
nose, and long throat. Rouge accentuates the natural

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

299

paleness of her complexion. Gray-green eyes that
move restlessly. She is in heliotrope, with diamonds.
She looks rather like an orchid, and makes great de-
mands on one's curiosity. In all her movements she
is extremely graceful. A work of art, on the whole,
but shoioing the influence of too many schools.]

LADY MARKBY. GoocI cvciiing, dear Gertrude!
So kind of you to let me bring my friend, Mrs.
Cheveley. Two such charming women should
know each other!

LADY CHILTERN [Advances towards MRS. cheve-
ley with a sweet smile. Then suddenly stops, and
bows rather distantly], I think Mrs. Cheveley and
I have met before. I did not know she had mar-
ried a second time.

LADY MARKBY [Genially.] Ah, nowadays people
marry as often as they can, don’t they? It is most
fashionable. [To duchess of Maryborough.]
Dear Duchess, and how is the Duke? Brain still
weak, I suppose? Well, that is only to be ex-
pected, is it not? His good father was just the
same. There is nothing like race, is there?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Playing with her fan]. But have
we really met before. Lady Chiltern? I can’t re-
member where. I have been out of England for so
long.

lady CHILTERN. Wc wcre at school together,
Mrs. Cheveley.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Super dUously]. Indeed? I
have forgotten all about my school days. I have
a vague impression that they were detestable.

LADY CHILTERN [Coldly], I am not surprised!

800

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MRS. CHEVELEY [In her sweetest manner]. Do
you know, I am quite looking forward to meeting
your clever husband, Lady Chiltern. Since he
has been at the Foreign Office, he has been so
much talked of in Vienna. They actually suc-
ceed in spelling his name right in the newspapers.
That in itself is fame, on the continent.

LADY CHILTERN. I hardly thinly there will be
much in common between you and my husband,
Mrs. Cheveley! [Moves away.]

vicoMTE DE NANJAC. Ah ! ch^re Madame, quelle
surprise ! I have not seen you since Berlin !

MRS. CHEVELEY. Not since Berlin, Vicomte.
Five years ago !

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. And you are younger and
more beautiful than ever. How do you manage it?

MRS. CHEVELEY. By making it a rule only to
talk to perfectly charming people like yourself.

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Ah ! you flatter me. You
butter me, as they say here.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Do they say that here? How
dreadful of them!

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. Yes, they have a wonder-
ful language. It should be more widely known.

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN enters. A man of forty,
but looking somewhat younger. Clean-shaven, with
finely-cut features, dark-haired and dark-eyed. A
personality of mark. Not popular— few personali-
ties are. But intensely admired by the few, and
deeply respected by the many. The note of his man-
ner is that of perfect distinction, with a slight touch of
pride. One feels that he is conscious of the success he

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

301

has made in life. A nervous temperament, with a
tired look. The firmly chiselled mouth and chin con-
trast strikingly with the romantic expression in the
deep-set eyes. The variance is suggestive of an al-
most complete separation of passion and intellect, as
though thought and emotion were each isolated in its
own sphere through some violence of will-power.
There is nervousness in the nostrils, and in the pale,
thin, pointed hands. It would be inaccurate to call
him picturesque. Piciuresqueness cannot survive
the House of Commons. But Vandyck would have
liked to have painted his head.]

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Good cvcning, Lady
Markby! I hope you have brought Sir John with
you?

LADY MARKBY. Oh! I have brought a much
more charming person than Sir John. Sir John's
temper since he has taken seriously to politics has
become quite unbearable. Really, now that the
House of Commons is trying to become useful, it
does a great deal of harm.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope not. Lady
Markby. At any rate we do our best to waste the
public time, don't we? But who is this charming
person you have been kind enough to bring to us?

LADY MARKBY. HcT name is Mrs. Cheveley!
One of the Dorsetshire Cheveleys, I suppose.
But I really don't know. Families are so mixed
nowadays. Indeed, as a rule, everybody turns
out to be somebody else.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley? I seem
to know the name.

302

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act a

LADY MARKBY. She has just arrived from
Vienna.

SIB ROBERT CHiLTERN. Ahlyes. I think I know
whom you mean.

LADY MARKBY. Oh! she goes everywhere there,
and has such pleasant scandals about all her
friends. I really must go to Vienna next winter.
I hope there is a good chef at the Embassy.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. If there is not, the Am-
bassador will certainly have to be recalled. Pray
point out Mrs. Cheveley to me. 1 should like to
see her.

LADY MARKBY. Let me introduce you. [Tombs.
CHEVELEY.] My dear, Sir Robert Chiltern is
dying to know you !

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Bming]. Everybody is
d 5 ring to know the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley. Our
attaches at Vienna write to us about nothing else.

MBS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Sir Robert. An
acquaintance that begins with a compliment is
sure to develop into a real friendsiiip. It starts in
the right manner. And I find that I know Lady
Chiltern already.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Really?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. She has just reminded
me that we were at school together. I remember
it perfectly now. She always got the good conduct
prize. I have a distinct recollection of Lady
Chiltern always getting the good conduct prize!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN \SmUing\. And what
prizes did you get, Mrs. Cheveley?

MRS. CHEVELEY. My prizes came a little later

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

303

on in life. I don’t think any of them were for
good conduct. I forget!

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. I am suTC they were for
something charming!

MRS. CHEVELEY. I don’t know that women are
always rewarded for being charming. I think they
are usually punished for it ! Certainly, more wo-
men grow old nowadays through the faithfulness
of their admirers than through anything else! At
least (hat is the only way I can account for the
terribly haggard look of most of your pretty wo-
men in London!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What in appalling phi-
losophy that sounds ! To attempt to classify you,
Mrs. Cheveley, would be an impertinence. But
may I ask, at heart, are you an optimist or a pessi-
mist? Those seem to be the only two fashionable
religions left to us nowadays.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I’m neither. Optimism
begins in a broad grin, and Pessimism ends with
blue spectacles. Besides, they arc both of them
merely poses.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You prefer to be natural?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. But it is such a
very difficult pose to keep up.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What would those
modem psychological novelists, of whom we hear
so much, say to such a theory as that?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Ah! the strength of women
comes from the fact that psychology cannot ex-
plain us. Men can be analysed, women . . .
merely adored.

304

TliE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

sm ROBERT CHiLTERN. You think science can-
not grapple with the problem of women?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Science can ne\ er grapple with
the irrational. That is why it has no future be-
fore it, in this world.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And womcn represent
the irrational.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Wcll-drcssed women do.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [ W Uh a poUk bou ^] . I fear
I could hardly agree with you lliere. But do sit
down. And now tell me, what makes you leave
your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London — or
perhaps the question is indiscreet?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Questions arc never indiscreet.
Answers sometimes are.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. W(dl, at any rate, may
I know if it is politics or pleasure?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Politics are my only pleasure.
You see nowadays it is not fashionable to flirt
till one is forty, or to be romantic till one is forty-
five, so we poor womcn who are under thirty, or
say we are, have nothing open to us but politics or
philanthropy. And philanthropy seems to me to
have become simply the refuge of people who wish
to annoy their fellow-creatures. I prefer politics.

I think they are more . . . becoming!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. A political life is a noble
career!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Sometimes. And sometimes it
is a clever game, Sir Robert. And sometimes it is
a great nuisance.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Which do you find it?

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

305

MBS. CHEVELEY. I? A combination of all three.
[Drops her fan.]

SIR ROBERT CHiLTEBN [Ptcks Up fan], Allow me!

MBS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.

SIR ROBERT CHILTEBN. But you have not told
me yet what makes you honour London so sud-
denly. Our season is almost over.

MBS. CHEVELEY. Oh! I don’t care about the
London season! It is too matrimonial. People
are either hunting for husbands, or hiding from
them. I wanted to meet you. It is quite true.
Y ou know what a woman’s curiosity is. Almost as
great as a man’s! I wanted immensely to meet
you, and ... to ask you to do something for me.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I hope it is not a little
thing, Mrs. Cheveley. I find that little things are
so very difficult to do.

MRS. CHEVELEY [After a moment’s reflection].
No, I don’t think it is quite a little thing.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am SO glad. Do tell
me what it is.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Later on. [R/scs.] And now
may I walk through your beautiful house? I hear
your pictures are charming. Poor Baron Am-
heim — you remember the Baron? — used to tell
me you had some wonderful Corots.

SIR ROBERT CHILTEBN [With an almost imper-
ceptible start] . Did you know Baron Amheim well?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Smiling], Intimately. Did
you?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. At one time.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful man, wasn’t he?

306

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [After a patise]. He was
very remarkable, in many ways.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I often think it such a pity he
never wroi(^ his memoirs. They would have been
most interesting.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes; he knew men and
cities well, like the old Greek.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Without the dreadful disad-
vantage of having a Penelope waiting at home for
him.

MASON. Lord Goring.

[Enter lord goring. Thirty-four, hut always says
he is younger, A well-bred, expressionless face. He
is dever, but would not like to be thought so. A flaw-
less dandy, he would be annoyed if he were con-
sidered romantic. He plays with life, and is on per-
fectly good terms with the world. He is fond of being
misunderstood. It gives him a post of vantage.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Good cvciiing, my dear
Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow me to introduce to
you Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I have met Lord Goring be-
fore.

LORD GORING [Botving]. I did not think you
would remember me, Mrs. Cheveley.

MRS. CHEVELEY. My mcmoiy is under admir-
able control. And are you still a bachelor?

LORD GORING. I . . . bclicve SO.

MRS. CHEVELEY. How vciy romantic!

LORD GORING. Oh! I am not at all romantic.
I am not old enough. I leave romance to my
seniors.

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

307

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Lord Goring is the result
of Boodle’s Club, Mrs. Chcveley.

MRS. CHEVELEY. He reflects every credit on the
institution.

LORD GORING. May I ask arc you staying in
London long?

MRS. CHEVELEY. That dcpcnds partly on the
weather, partly on the cooking, and partly on Sir
Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are not going to
plunge us into a European war, I hope?

MRS. CHEVELEY, Thcrc is no danger, at
present!

[SAe nods to lord goring, with a look of amuse-
ment in her eyes, and goes out with sir Robert chil-

TERN. LORD GORING SaUUtcrS OVCT to MABEL CHIlr
TERN.]

MABEL CHILTERN. You arc very late!

LORD GORING. Ilavc you Hiissed me?

MABEL CHILTERN. Awfully!

LORD GORING. Then I am sorry I did not stay
away longer. I like being missed.

MABEL CHILTERN. How veiy sclfish of you!

LORD GORING, I am Very selfish.

MABEL CHILTERN. You are always telling me of
your bad qualities, Lord Goring.

LORD GORING. I havc only told you half of
them as yet. Miss Mabel!

MABEL CHILTERN. Are the others very bad?

LORD GORING. Quite dreadful! When I think
of them at night I go to sleep at once.

MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I delight in your bad

«08

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

qualities. I wouldn’t have you part with one of
them.

LOED COKING. How very nice of you ! But then
you are always nice. By the way, I want to ask
you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs.
Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope, who
has just gone out of the room with your brother?

MABEL CHiLTERN. Oh, I think Lady Markby
brought her. Why do you ask?

LORD GORING. 1 hadn’t seen her for years, that
is all.

MABEL CHILTERN. What an absurd reason'.

LORD GORING. All rcasons are absurd.

MABEL CHILTERN. What sort of woman is she?

LORD GORING. Oh! a genius in the daytime and
a beauty at night!

MABEL CHILTERN. I dislike hcr already.

LORD GORING. That shows your admirable
good taste.

vicoMTE DE NANJAC [Approaching]. Ah, the
English young lady is the dragon of good taste, is
she not? Quite the dragon of good taste.

LORD GORING. So the newspapers arc always
telling us.

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I read all your English
newspapers. I find them so amusing.

LORD GORING. Then, my dear Nanjac, you must
certainly read between the lines.

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. I should like to, but my
professor objects. [To mabel chiltern.] May I
have the pleasure of escorting you to the music-
room, Mademoiselle?

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

309

MABEL CHiLTERN [Lookiug Very disappointed].
Delighted, Vicomte, quite delighted! [Turning to
LORD GORING.] Aren’t you coming to the music-
room?

LORD GORING. Not if there is any music going
on, Miss Mabel.

MABEL CHILTERN [Severely], The music is in
German. You would not understand it.

[Goes out with the vicomte de nanjac. lord
CAVERSHAM comes up to his son.]

lord CAVERSHAM. Well, sir ! what are you doing
hen'.? Wasting your life as usual! You should be
in bed, sir. You keep too late hours! I heard of
you the other night at Lady Rufford’s dancing till
four o’clock in the morning!

i.ORD GORING. Only a quarter to four, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Can’t make out how you
stand London Society. The thing has gone to
the dogs, a lot of damned nobodies talking about
nothing.

LORD GORING. I love talking about nothing,
father. It is the only thing I know anything
about.

LORD CAVERSHAM. You secm to me to be living
entirely for pleasure.

LORD GORING. What clse is there to live for,
father. Nothing ages like happiness.

LORD CAVERSHAM. You are heartless, sir, very
heartless!

LORD GORING. I hope not, father. Good eve-
ning, Lady Basildon!

LADY BASILDON [Arching two pretty eyebrows].

310

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

Are you here? I had no idea you ever came to
political parties!

LORD GORING. I adore political parties. They
are the only place left to us where people don't
talk politics.

LADY BASILDON. I delight ill talking politics.
I talk them all day long. But I can't bear listen-
ing to them. 1 don't know how the unfortunate
men in the House stand these long debates.

LORD GORING. Bv ncvcr listening.

LADY BASILDON. Really?

LORD GORING [In his most serious manner]. Of
course. You see, it is a very dangerous thing to
listen. If one listens one may be convinced;
and a man who allows himself to be convinced
by an argument is a thoroughly unreasonable
person.

LADY BASILDON. Ah ! that accounts for so much
in men that I have never understood, and so much
in women that their husbands never appreciate in
them!

MRS. MARCHMONT [With a sigh]. Our husbands
never appreciate anything in us. We have to go to
others for that !

LADY BASILDON [Emphatically]. Yes, always to
others, have we not?

LORD GORING [Smiling]. And those are the views
of the two ladies who are known to have the most
admirable husbands in London.

MRS. MARCHMONT. That is exactly what we
can't stand. My Reginald is quite hopelessly
faultless. He is really unendurably so, at times!

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

311

There is not the smallest element of excitement in
knowing him.

LORD GORING. How terrible! Really, the thing
should be more widely known!

LADY BASILDON. Basildon is quite as bad; he is
as domestic as if he was a bachelor.

MRS. MARCHMONT [Pressing lady Basildon's
hand\. My poor Olivia! We have married per-
fect husbands, and we are well punished for it.

LORD goring. I should have thought it was the
husbands who were punished.

MRS. MARCHMONT [Drawing herself up]. Oh,
dear no! They are as happy as possible! And as
for trusting us, it is tragic how much they trust us.

LADY BASILDON. Perfectly tragic!

LORD GORING. Or comic. Lady Basildon?

LADY BASILDON. Certainly not comic. Lord
Goring. How unkind of you to suggest such a
thing !

MRS. MARCHMONT. I am afraid Lord Goring is
in the camp of the enemy, as usual. I saw him
talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in.

LORD GORING. Handsomc woman, Mrs. Cheveley!

LADY BASILDON [Stiffly]. Plcasc don’t praise
other women in our presence. You might wait
for us to do that!

LORD GORING. I did wait.

MRS. MARCHMONT. Well, we are not going to
praise her. I hear she went to the Opera on Mon-
day night, and told Tommy Rufford at supper
that, as far as she could see, London Society was
entirely made up of dowdies and dandies.

312

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORD GORING. Shc is quite right, too. The men
arc all dow ^s and the women arc all d'aiidies,
^n't tKeyT^ ^

^■"IffRSTlviARCHMONT [After a pause]. Oh! do you
really think that is what Mrs. Chcvcley meant?

LORD GORING. Of coursc. And a \ery sensible
remark for Mrs. Chevckw to make, too.

[Enter mabel chiltern. She joins the group.]

MABEL CHILTERN. Why urc you talking about
Mrs. Cheveley? Everybody is talking about Mrs.
Chcvcley! Lord (ioring says — wliat did you say,
Lord Goring, about Mrs. Cheveley? Oh! I re-
member, that she was a genius in the daytime and
a beauty at night.

LADY BASILDON. Wliat a lioirid combination!
So very unnatural!

MRS. MARCHMONT [III her most dreamy manner].
I like looking at geniuses, and listening to beau-
tiful people.

LORD GORING. Ah! that is morbid of you, Mrs.
Marchmont !

MRS. MARCHMONT [Brightening to a look of real
pleasure]. I am so glad to hear you say that.
Marchmont and I have been married for seven
years, and he has never once told me that I was
morbid. Men arc so painfully unobservant!

LADY BASILDON [Turning to her]. I have always
said, dear Margaret, that you were the most mor-
bid person in London.

MRS. MARCHMONT. Ah 1 but you are always sym-
pathetic, Olivia!

MABEL CHILTERN. Is it morbid to have a desire

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

313

for food? I have a great desire for food. Lord
Goring, will you give me some supper?

LORD GORING. With pleasure, Miss Mabel.
[Moves away with her.]

MABEL CHILTERN. How horrid you have been!
You have never talked to me the whole evening!

LORD GORING. How could I? You Went away
with the child-diplomatist.

MABEL CHILTERN. You might liavc followed us.
Pursuit would have been only polite. I don't
think I like you at all this evening!

LORD GORING. I like you immensely.

MABEL CHILTERN. Well, I wish you’d show it in
a more marked way! [They go downstairs.]

MRS. MARCHMONT. Olivia, I have a curious
feeling of absolute faintness. I think I should like
some supper very much. I know I should like
some supper.

LADY BASILDON. I am positively dying for
supper, Margaret!

MRS. MARCHMONT. Men are so horribly selfish,
they never think of these things.

LADY BASILDON. Men are grossly material,
grossly material !

[The vicoMTE DE NANJAC enters from the music-
room with some other guests. After having carefully
examined all the people present, he approaches lady

BASILDON.]

VICOMTE DE NANJAC. May I have the honour of
taking you down to supper, Comtesse?

LADY BASILDON [Coldly], I never take supper,
thank you, Vicomte. [The vicomte is about to

314

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

retire, lady basildon, seeing this, rises at once
and takes his arm.] But 1 will come down with
you with pleasure.

vicoMTE DE NANJAC. I am SO foiid of eating!
I am \Gry English in all my tastes.

LADY BASILDON. You look quite English,
Vicomte, quite English.

[They pass out. MR. montford, a perfectly
groomed young dandy, approaches MRS. march-
MONT.]

MR. MONTFORD. Lilie somc supper, Mrs.
Marchmont?

MRS. MARCHMONT [Languidly]. Thank you, Mr.
Montford, I never touch supper. [Rises hastily
and takes his arm.] But I will sit beside you, and
watch you.

MR. MONTFORD. I douT know that I like being
watched when I am eating!

MRS. MARCHMONT. Then I will watch some one
else.

MR. MONTFORD. I douT know tliat 1 should like
that either.

MRS. MARCHMONT [Sederely]. Pray, Mr. Mont-
ford, do not make these painful scenes of jealousy
in public!

[They go downstairs with the other guests, passing
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN and MRS. CHEVELEY, who
now enter.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And are you going to
any of our country houses before you leave Eng-
land, Mrs. Cheveley?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I canT stand your

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

315

English house-]mrties. In England people actual-
ly try to be brilliant at breakfast. That is so dread-
ful of them! Only dull people are brilliant at
breakfast. And then the family skeleton is always
reading family prayers. My stay in England real-
ly depends on you, Sir Robert. [Sils down on the
sofa.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Taking a seat beside her].
Seriously?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Quite seriously. I want to
talk to you about a great political and financial
scheme, about this Argentine C^^nal Company,
in fact.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, What a tcdious, prac-
tical subject for you to talk about, Mrs. Chevelcy !

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oil, I like tedious, practical
subjects. What I don’t like arc tedious, practical
people. There is a wide dilference. Besides, you
arc interested, I know, in International Canal
schemes. You were Lord Radley’s secretary,
weren’t you, when the Govermnent bought the
Suez Canal shares?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. YcS. But the SuCZ
Canal was a very great and splendid undertaking.
It gave us our direct route to India. It had Im-
perial value. It was necessary that wc should
liavc control. This Argentine scheme is a com-
monplace Stock Exchange swindle.

MRS. CHEVELEY. A speculation, Sir Robert! A
brilliant, daring speculation,

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Bclievc me, Mrs. Cheve-
ley, it is a swindle. Let us call things by their

316

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act i

proper names. It makes matters simpler. We
have all the information about it at the Foreign
Office. In fact, I sent out a special Commission to
inquire into the matter privately, and they report
that the works are hardly begim, and as for the
money already subscribed, no one seems to know
what has become of it. The whole thing is a
second Panama, and with not a quarter of the
chance of success that miscrabli^. affair ever had.
I hope you have not invested in it. I am sure you
are far too clever to have done that.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I havc invested very largely
in it.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Who could have adviscd
you to do such a foolish thing?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Your old friend — and mine.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Who?

MRS, CHEVELEY. Baron Amheim.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Frowulng], Ah! yes. I
remember hearing, at the time of his death, that
he had been mixed up in the whole affair.

MRS. CHEVELEY. It was his last romance. His
last but one, to do him justice.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Rising], But you havc
not seen my Corots yet. They are in the musio
room. Corots seem to go with music, don’t they?
May I show them to you?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Shaking her head], I am not in
a mood to-night for silver twilights, or rose-pink
dawns. I want to talk business. [Motimis to him
with her fan to sit down again beside her,]

SIB ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I liavc no advice

ACT I]

AN IDUiAL HUSBAND

317

to give you, Mrs. Cheveley, except to interest
yourself in something less dangerous. The suc-
cess of the Canal depends, of course, on the atti-
tud(5 of England, and I am going to lay the report
of th(^ Commissioners before the House to-morrow
night.

MRS. CHEVELEY. That you must not do. In
your own inten^sts, Sir Robert, to say nothing of
mine, you must not do that.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN [Looking at her in wonder].
In my own int(a*csts? My dear Mrs. Cheveley,
what do you mean? [Sits down beside her].

MRS. CHEVELEY. Sir Robert, 1 will be quite
frank with you. I want you to withdraw^ the re-
port that you had intended to lay before the
House, on the ground that you have reasons to
believe that tluj Commissioners have been preju-
diced or misinfonned, or something. Then I want
j'ou to say a few words to the ellect that the
Government is going to reconsider the question,
and that you have reason to believe that the
Canal, if completed, will be of great international
value. You know the sort of things ministers say
in cases of this kind. A few ordinary platitudes
will do. In mod(Tn life nothing produces such an
effect as a good platitude. It makes the whole
world kin. Will you do this for me?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Chevclcy, you can-
not be serious in making me such a proposition!

MRS. CHEVELEY. 1 am quitc serious.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Coldly], Pray allow me
to believe that you are not!

318

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MRS. CHEVELEY [Speaking with great deliberation
and emphasis]. Ah! but I am. And, if you do
what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very hand-
somely !

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Pay mc!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Ycs.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I aiu afraid I don’t quite
understand what you mean.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Leaning hack on the sofa and
looking at hhn]. How very disappointing! And I
have come all the way from Vienna in order that
you should Ihorouglily understand me.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I fear I doil’t.

MRS. CHEVELEY [In her most nonchalant 7nanner],
My dear Sir Robert, you arc a man of Die world,
and you have your price, I sup])ose. Everybody
has nowmlays. The drawback is that most people
arc wSO dreadfully ex{)ensive. I know 1 am. I hope
you will be more reasonable in your terms.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Jilses indignanth/]. If
you will allow me, 1 will call your carriage for you.
You have lived so long abroad, Mrs. Clicveley,
that you seem to be unable to realise that you are
talking to an English gentleman.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Detains him by touching his
arm tvilh her fan ^ and keeping It there while she is
talking], I realise that I am talking to a man who
laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a
Stock Exchange S])eculator a Cabinet secret.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Biting his lip], Wliat do
you mean?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Rising and facing him], I mean

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

319

that I know the real origin of your wealth and
your career, and I have got your letter, too.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERisT. What letter?

MRS. CHEVELEY [CotUemptiioudj/]. The letter
you wrot('. to Baron Arnhcim, wlien you were
Lord Ihidley’s secretary, telling the Baron to buy
Suez Canal shares — a letter written three days
before tlic Go\’enimcnt announced its own pur-
chase.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN [Hoarscif/]. It is not true.

MRS. CHEVELEY. You thought that letter had
been d(\stroyed. How foolish of you! It is in my
possession.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. The alTair to which you
allude was no more than a speculation. The House
of Commons liad not yet passed the bill; it might
have been rejected.

MRS. CHEVELEY. It was a swiiidlc, Sir Robert.
Let us call things by their ])ropcr names. It
makes everytliing simpler. And now I am going
to sell you that IcIUt, and the price I ask for it is
your public support of the Argentine scheme. Y ou
made your own fortune out of one canal. You
must help me and my friends to make our for-
tunes out of another!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is iiifamous, what
‘you propose — infamous!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, 110 ! This is the game of
life as we all have to play it, Sir Robert, sooner or
later!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I caniiot do what you
ask me.

320

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MRS. CHEVELEY. You mean you cannot help
doing it. You know you are standing on the edge
of a precipice. And it is not for you to make
terms. It is for you to accept them. Supposing
you refuse

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. What then?

MRS. CHEVELEY. My dear Sir Robert, what
then? you arc ruined, that is all! Remeunber to
what a point your Puritanism in England has
brought you. In old days nobody pretended to be
a bit better than his neighbours. In fact, to be a
bit better than one's neighbour was considered
excessively vulgar and middle-class. Nowadays,
with our modern mania for morality, everyone
has to pose as a paragon of purity, incorruptibility,
and all the other seven deadly virtues — and what
is the result? You all go over like ninepins — one
after the other. Not a year passes in England
without somebody disappearing. Scandals used
to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man — now
they crush him. And yours is a very nasty scan-
dal. You couldn't survive it. If it were known that
as a young man, secretary to a great and impor-
tant minister, you sold a Cabinet secret for a large
sum of money, and that that was the origin of
your wealth and career, you would be hounded
out of public life, you would disappear completely.
And after all, Sir Robert, why should you sacrifice
your entire future rather than deal diplomatically
with your enemy? For the moment I am your
enemy. I admit it! And I am much stronger
than you are. The big battalions are on my side.

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

321

You have a splendid position, but it is your
splendid position that makes you so vulnerable.
You can’t defend it! And I am in attack. Of
course I have not talked morality to you. You
must admit in fairness that I have spared you
that. Years ago you did a (‘lever, unscrupulous
thing; it turned rmt a great success. You owe to
it your fortune and position. And now you have
got to pay for it. Sooner or later we all have to
pay for what we do. You have to pay now. Be-
fore I leave you to-night, you have got to promise
mo to suppress your re})ort, and to speak in the
House in favour of this scheinc.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What you ask is im-
possible.

MRS. CHE\TELEY. You must make it possible.
You arc going to make it possible. Sir Robert,
you know what your English newspapers are like.
Supix)se that when I leave this house I drive
down to som(^ newspaper office, and give them this
scandal and the proofs of it ! Think of their loath-
some joy, of the delight tlic\' would have in drag-
ging you down, of the mud and mire they would
plunge y^ou in. Think of the hypocrite with his
gr(\asy smile peuming his leading article, and
arranging the foulness of the public placard.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stop ! You Want me to
withdraw the report and to make a short speech
stating that I believe there arc possibilities in the
scheme?

MRS. CHEVELEY [SitUrig down on the sofa]. Those
arc my terms.

322

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act r

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [In a low voice]. I will
give you any sum of money you want.

MRS. ciiEVELEY. Evcii you are not rich enough,
Sir Robert, to buy back your ])ast. No man is.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will not tlo what you
ask. I will not.

MRS. CHEVELEY. You liavc to. If you don’t . . .
[Rises from the sofa.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Bewildered and unnerved].
Wait a moment! What did you propose? You
said that you would give me back my letter,
didn’t you?

MRS. che\t:ley. Yes. That is agreed. I will
be in the Ladies’ Gallery to-moiTow night at half-
past eleven. If by that time — and you will have
had heaps of opportunity — you have made an an-
nouncement to the House in the tenns I wish, I
shall hand you back your letter with the prettiest
thanks, and the best, or at any rate the most suit-
able, compliment I can think of. I intend to play
quite fairly with you. One should always play
fairly . . . when one has the winning cards. The
Baron taught me that . . . amongst other things.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You must let mc have
time to consider your proposal.

MRS. CHEVELEY. No; you must settle now!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Givc me a week — three
days!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Impossible! I have got to
telegraph to Vienna to-night.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My God ! what brought
you into my life?

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

323

MRS. CHEVELEY. Circiimstanccs.

[Moves towards the door,]
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Doil’t gO. 1 COBSCllt.
The report shall be withdrawn. I will arrange for
a question to be put to me on the subject.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. I knew we should
come to an amicable agreement. I understood
your nature from the first. I anal^^sed you,
though you did not adore me. And now you can
get my carriage for me, Sir Robert. I see the peo-
ple coming up from supper, and Englishmen al-
ways get romantic after a meal, and that bores
me dreadfully. [Exit sir Robert chiltern.]
[Enter Guests, lady CHiLirmN, lady markby,

LORD CAVERSHAM, LADY BASILDON, MRS. MARCH-
MONT. VICOMTE DE NANJAC, MR. MONTFORD.l

LADY MARKBY. Well, dear Mrs. Chevelcy, I
hope you have enjoyed yourself. Sir Robert is
very entertaining, is he not?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Most entertaining! I have
enjoyed my talk with him immensely.

LADY MARKBY. He lias had a very interesting
and brilliant career. And he ha^ married a most
admirable wnfe. Lady Chiltern is a woman of the
very highest principles, I am glad to say. I am a
little too old now, myself, to trouble about setting
a good example, but I always admire people who
do. And Lady Chiltern has a very ennobling
effect on life, though her dinner-parties are rather
dull sometimes. But one can’t have everything,
can one? And now I must go, dear. Shall I call
for you to-morrow?

324

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks.

LADY MARKBY. We might drive in the Park at
five. Everything looks so fresh in the Park
now!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Except the people!

LADY MARKBY. Perhaps the people are a little
jaded. I have often observed that the Season as it
goes on produces a kind of softening of the brain.
However, I think anything is better than high in-
tellectual pressure. That is the most unbecoming
thing there is. It makes the noses of the young
girls so particularly large. And there is nothing so
difficult to marry as a large nose, men don’t like
them. Good-night, dear! [To lady chiltern.]
Good-night, Gertrude! [Goes out on lord caver-
sham’s arm.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. What a charming house you
have, Lady Chiltern! I have spent a delightful
evening. It has been so interesting getting to
know your husband.

LADY CHILTERN. Wliy did you wish to meet my
husband, Mrs. Chevelcy?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, I will tell you. I wanted
to interest him in this Argentine Canal scheme, of
which I dare say you have heard. And 1 found
him most susceptible, — susceptible to reason, I
mean. A rare thing in a man. I converted him in
ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in the
House to-morrow night in favour of the idea. We
must go to the Ladies’ Gallery and hear him ! It
will be a great occasion!

LADY CHILTERN. There must be some mistake.

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

325

That scheme could never have my husband's sup-
port.

MRS. CHEVELEY, Oh, I assure you it’s all set-
tled. I don’t regret my tedious journey from
Vienna now. It has been a great success. But, of
course, for the next twenty-four hours the whole
thing is a dead secret.

TADY CHiLTERN [Gently]. A secret? Between
whom?

MRS. CHEVELEY [With Q flash of amusement in her
eyes]. Between your husband and myself.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Entering]. Your carriage
is here, Mrs. ("hcvelcy!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Tliaiiks! Good evening, Lady
Chiltern! Good night, Lord Goring! I am at
Claridgi^’s. Don’t you think you might leave a
card?

LORD GORING. If you wisli it, Mrs. Cheveley!

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oil, doii’t be SO Solemn about
it, or I shall be obliged to leave a card on you. In
England I suppose tliat would be hardly considered
en regie. Abroad, we arc more civilised. Will you
see me down. Sir Robert? Now that we have
both the same interests at heart we shall be great
friends, I hope.

[Sails out on sir Robert chiltern’s arm. lady
CHILTERN goes to the top of the staircase and looks
down at them as they descend. Her expression is
troubled. After a little lime she is joined by some of
the guesiSy and passes with them into another recep-
tion-room.]

MABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman !

326

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORD GORING. You should go to bcd, Miss
Mabel.

MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring!

LORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed
an hour ago. I don't sec why I shouldn't give you
the same advice. I always pass on good advice.
It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of
any use to oneself.

MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you arc always
ordering me out of the room. I think it most
courageous of you. Especially as I am not going
to bed for hours. [Goes over to sofa.] You can
come and sit down if you like, and talk about
anything in the world, except the Royal Academy,
Mrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They
are not improving subjects. [Catches sight of
something that is lying on the sofa half -hidden by the
cushion.] What is this? Some one has dropped a
diamond brooch ! Quite beautiful isn’t it? [Shows
it to him.] I wish it was mine, but Gertrude won’t
Jet me wear anything but pearls, and I am thor-
oughly sick of pearls. They make one look so
plain, so good and so intellectual. 1 ondcr whom
the brooch belongs to?

LORD GORING. I woiidcr who dropped it.

MABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch.

LORD GORING. It is a liandsomc bracelet.

MABEL CHILTERN. It isn’t a bracelet. It’s a
brooch.

LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet.
[Takes it from her, and, pullmg out a green letter-
case, puis the ornament carefully in it, and replaces

-cr I] AN IDEAL HUSBAND 327

the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most
perfect sang-froid.]

MABEL CHiLTERN. What are you doing?

LORD GORING. Miss Mabcl, I am going to make
a rather strange request of you.

MABET, CHILTERN [Eagerly]. Oh, pray do! I
have been waiting for it all the evening.

LORD GORING [Is a little taken aback, but recovers
himself]. Don’t mention to anybody that I have
taken charge of this brooch. Sliould anyone
write and claim it, let me know at once.

MABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request.

LORD GORING. Well, you sec I gave this brooch
to somebody once, years ago.

MABEL CHILTERN. You did?

LORD GORING. YeS.

[lady CHILTERN enters alone. The other guests
have go?ie.]

MABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid
you good-night. Good-night, Gertrude! [Exit.]

LADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [To lord
GORING.] You saw whom Lady Markby brought
here to-night.

LORD GORING. Ycs. It w’DS an unpleasant sur-
prise. Wliat did she come here for?

LADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure
Robert to uphold some fraudulent scheme in which
she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in fact.

LORD GORING. She lias mistaken her man,
hasn’t she?

LADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understand-
ing an upright nature like my husband’s!

328

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

LORDGOKiNG. Ycs. I shouM fancy shc camc to
grief if she tried to get Robert into her toils. It is
extraordinary wliat astounding mistakes clever
women make.

LADY CHILTERN. I don’t call womcn of that
kind clever. I call them stui)id !

LORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night,
Lady Chiltem!

LADY CHILTERN. Good-nigllt!

[Enier sir Robert chiltern.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you
are not going? Do stop a little !

LORD GORING. Afraid I can’t, thanks. I have
promised to look in at the Hartlocks’. I believe
they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays
mauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Good-
bye. [Exit.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look
to-night, Gertrude!

LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not time, is it?
You are not going to lend your support to this
Argentine speculation? You couldn’t!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Starling]. Wlio told you
I intended to do so?

LADY (TiiLTERN. That woman who has just
gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now.
She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know
this woman. You don’t. We were at school to-
gether. She was untruthful, dishonest, an evil in-
fluence on everyone whose trust or friendship she
could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole
things, she was a thief. She was sent away for

ACT Ij

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

329

being a thief. Why do you let her influence
you?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gcrtrudc, what you tell
me may be true, but it happened many years ago.
It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have
changed since then. No one should be entirely
judged by their past.

LADY CHILTERN [Sadly], Oiic’s past is what one
is. It is the only way by which people should be
judged.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying,
Gertrude!

LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert.
And what did she mean by boasting that she had
got you to lend your support, your name to a thing
I have heard you describe as the most dishonest
and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in
political life?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Biting Ms lip], I was
mistaken in the view I took. We all may make
mist^ikcs.

LADY CHILTERN. But you told mc yesterday
that you had received the report from the Com-
mission, and that it entirely condemned the whole
thing.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Walking up and doum], I
have reasons now to believe that the Commission
was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed.
Besides, (Jertrude, public and private life are
diflerent things. They have diflcrent laws, and
move on different lines.

LADY CHILTERN. They sliould both represent

330

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

man at his highest. I see no difference between
them.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN [Slopping]. In the pres-
ent case, on a matter of practical politics, I have
changed my mind. That is all.

LADY CHILTERN. All!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Slcmly]. Ycs!

LADY CHILTERN. Robert ! Oh ! it is horrible that
I should have to ask you such a question — Robert,
are you telling me the whole truth?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me
such a (luestion?

LADY CHILTERN [Afler a pause]. Why do you
not answer it?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Sitting dowu]. Gertrude,
truth is a very complex thing, and politics is a
very complex business. There are wheels within
wheels. One may be under certain obligations to
people that one must jiay. Sooner or later in
political life one has to compromise. Everyone does.

LADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why
do you talk so differently to-night from the way I
have always heard you talk? Why are you
changed?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But
circumstances alter things.

LADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never
alter principles !

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told yoU

LADY CHILTERN. What?

SIB ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary,
vitally necessary.

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

331

LADY CHiLTERN. It can never be necessary to
do what is not honourable. Or if it be necessary,
then what is it that I have loved ! But it is not,
Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be?
Wliat gain would you get? Money? We have no
need of that! And money that comes from a
tainted source is a degradation. Power? But
power is nothing in itself. It is power to do good
that is fine — that, and that only. What is it,
then? Robert, tell me why you are going to do
this dishonourable thing?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no
right to use that word. I told you it was a ques-
tion of rational compromise. It is no more than
that.

LADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well
for other men, for men who treat life simply as a
sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not
for you. Y ou are different. All your life you have
stood apart from others. You have never let the
world soil you. To the world, as to myself, you
have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal
still. That great inheritance throw not away —
that tower of ivory do not destroy. Robert, men
can love what is beneath them — things unworthy,
stained, dishonoured. W’e women worship when
we love; and when we lose our worship, we lose
everything. Oh ! don’t kill my love for you, don’t
kill that !

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gcrtrude!

LADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men
with horrible secrets in their lives — men who have

332

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

done some shameful thing, and who in some criti-
cal moment have to pay for it, by doing some other
act of shame — oh! don’t tell me you are such as
they are! Robert, is there in your life any secret
dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once,
that

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Tliat what?

LADY CHILTERN [Speaking very slowly]. That
our lives may drift apart.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift a[)art?

LADY CHILTERN. That thcv may be entirely
separate. It would be better for us both.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is noth-
ing in ray past life that you might not know.

LADY CHILTERN. 1 wus sure of it, |{ol)('rt, I was
sure of it. But why did you sa\' those dreadful
things, things so unlike your real s('lf? Don’t let
us ever talk about the subject again. You will
write, won’t you, to Mrs. Chcvele>', and tell her
that you cannot support this scandalous scheme of
hers? If you hav(‘ given her any ]>romLse you must
take it baric, that is all !

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Must I WTltC aiul tclI
her that?

LADY CHILTERN. Surcly, Robcrt! What else
is there to do?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I might soc her person-
ally. It would be better.

LADY CHILTERN. You must ncvcr see her again,
Robert. She is not a woman you should ever
speak to. She is not w^orthy to talk to a man like
you. No; you must write to her at once, now,

ACT l]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

333

this moment, and let your letter show her that
your decision is quite irrevocable!

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Write this moment!

LADY CHILTERN. YeS.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But it is SO late. It is
close on twelve.

LADY CHILTERN. That makcs no matter. She
must know at once that she has been mistaken in
you — and that you are not a man to do anything
base or underhand or dishonourable. Write here,
Robert. Write that you decline to support this
scheme of Ikts, as you hold it to be a dishonest
scheme. Yes — wnite the word dishonest. She
knows what that word means, [sir robert
CHILTERN sils down and writes a letter. His
wife takes it up and reads it.] Yes; that will do.

bell.] And now the envelope. [He writes
the envelope slowly. Enter mason.] Have this
letter sent at once to Claridge’s Hotel. There
is no answer. [Exit mason, lady chiltern
kneels down beside her husband and puls her arms
around him.] Robert, love gives one a sort of
instinct to things. I feel to-night that I have
saved j on from something that might have been
a tlanger to you, from something that might
have made men honour you less than they do.
1 don’t think you realise sufficiently, Robert,
that you ha\e brought into the political life
of our time a nobler atmosi)here, a finer attitude
towards life, a freer air of purer aims and higher
ideals — I know it, and for that I love you,
Robert.

334

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Oh, lovc me always,
Gertrude, love me always!

LADY CHILTERN. I will lovc you always, because
you will always be worthy of lovc. We needs
must love the highest when we see it ! [Kisses him
and rises and goe^ out.]

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN walks up and down for a
moment; then sits down and buries his face in his
hands. The servant enters and begins putting out
the lights, sir Robert chiltekn looks up.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Put out the lights.
Mason, put out the lights!

[The servant puts out the lights. The room be-
comes almost dark. The only light there is comes
from the great chandelier that hangs over the stair-
case and illumines the tapestry of the Triumph of
Love.]

Act-drop

ACT II

Scene — Morning-room at sir Robert chil-
tern's hmise.

[lord goring, dressed in the height of fashion, u
lounging in an armchair, sir Robert chiltern is
siamling in front of the fireplace. He is emdenlly in
a state of great mental excitement and distress. As
the scene progresses he paces nervously up and down
the room.]

LORD goring. My dear Robert, it’s a very
awkward business, ver>' awkward indeed. You
should have told your wife the whole thing.
Secrets from other people’s wives are a necessary
luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always
told at the club by people who are bald enough to
know belter. But no man should have a secret
from his own wife. She invariably finds it out.
Women have a wonderful instinct about things.
They can discover eveiything except the obvious.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I couldn’t tell
my wife. When could I have told lier? Not last
night. It would have made a life-long separation
between us, and I would have lost the love of the
one woman in the world I worship, of the only
woman who has (’ver stirred love within me. Last
night it would have been quite impossible. She
would have turned from me in horror ... in
horror and in contempt.

335

336

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

LORD GORING. Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all
that?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ycs; my wifc is as per-
fect as all that.

LORD GORING [Taking ojf hLs left-hand glove].
What a })it> ’ I beg your ])ar(lou, my dear fellow,
I didn’t quite mean that. Hut if what you tell me
is tnie, 1 should like to lia\e a serious talk about
life with Lady Chiltern.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It WOuld bc (juitc USClcSS.

LORD GORING. May I try*^

SIR ROBERT (TiiLTERX. Yes; but nothing could
make her alter her views.

LORD GORING. Well, at the worst it would sim-
ply bc a psychological ex])eriin(ait.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All sucli expca'imciits are
terribly dangerous.

LORD GORING. Evciytliiiig is dang(Tous, my
dear fellow. If it wasn’t vso, life wouldn’t lx* worth
living. . . . Well, I am bound to vsay that 1 think
you should hav(^ told her years ago.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Wh(‘n? When we W(Te
engaged? Do you think she would liavc married
me if sh(; had known that tlic origin of my fortune
is such as it is, the basis of my caret^r such as it is,
and that 1 had done a thing that 1 suppose* most
men would call shameful and dishoiumrabki?

LORD GORING [Slmly]. Ycs; most men would
call it ugly names. Tiiere is no doubt of
that.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [BiUerly]. Men who
every day do something of the same kind them-

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

337

selves. Men who, each one of them, have worse
secrets in their own lives.

LORD GORING, That is the reason they are so
pleased to find out other people’s secrets. It dis-
tr^ic'ls public attention from their own.

SIR ROiiERT CHiLTERX. And, after all, whom did
I wron^ by what 1 did? No one.

LORD GORING [Looknig at him steadily]. Except
yourself, Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERX [After a pamc]. Of course
I had private information about a certain transac-
tion cx)nteraplatcd by the (Jovemment of the day,
and I acted on it. lh*ivatc information is practi-
cally the source of ever\^ large modem fortune.

LORD GORING [Tapping his bool mih his cane].
And pulilie saindal iinariably the result.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERX [Pacing up and down the
room]. Arthur, do you think that wliat I did
nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up
against me now? Do you think it fair that a man’s
whole career should be mined for a fault done in
one’s boyhood almost. 1 was twenty-two at the
time, and I had the double misfortune of being
well-born and poor, two unforgivable things now-
adays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one’s
youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck
a life like mine, should place me in the pillory,
should shatter all that I have wT)rked for, all that
I have built up? Is it fair, Arthur?

IX)RD GORING. Life is never fair, Robert. And
perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is
not.

338

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Evciy man of ambition
has to fight liis cciituTy with its own weapons.
Wliat this century worshi])s is wealth. The Cod
of this century is wealth. To succeed one must
have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.

LORD GORING. You Underrate? yourself, Robert.
Believe me, without wealth you could have suc-
ceeded just as well.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Wdicn I WaS old, p(T-
haps. Wh(‘n I had lost my passion for power, or
could not use it. When I was tired, worn out,
disappointed. 1 wanted my success when I was
young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't
wait.

LORI) GORING. Well, you certainly have had
your succ(3ss while you arc still young. No one in
our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-
secretary for Foreign Affairs at the fige of forty —
that’s good enough for anyone, 1 should think.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And if it is all taken
away from me now? If I lose? eveiyihing over a
horrible scandal? If 1 am hounded from public
life?

LORD GORING. Robert, how could you have
sold yourself for money?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Elatedly], I did not sell
myself for money. I bought success at a great
price. That is all.

LORD GORING [Grarely], Yes; you certainly paid
a great price for it. But what first made you
think of doing such a thing?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Baron Amhcim.

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

339

LORD GORING. Damned scoundrel!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; hc was a man of a
most subtle and refined intellect. A man of cul-
ture, charm, and distinction. One of the most in-
tellectual men I ever met.

LORI) GORING. Ah! 1 prefer a pfcntlemanly fool
any day. 7'h(*re is mon^ to be said for stupidity
than jieoplc imagine. Personally 1 have a great
admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-
feeling, 1 supjiose. But how did hc do it? Tell me
the whole thing.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Throws himsclf into an
armchair by the writing table]. One night after
dinner at Ix)rd Radley's the Baron began talk-
ing al)out success in modem life as something that
one could reduce to an absolutely definite science.
With that wonderfully fiiscinating quiet voice of
his he expounded to us the most terrible of all
philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to
us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of
gold. 1 think he saw the efTect he had produced on
me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me
to come and sec him. He was living then in Park
I^nc, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I
remember so well how, with a strange smile on his
pale curved lips, he led me through his wonderful
picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his
enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me
wonder at the strange loveliness of the luxury in
which hc lived; and then told me that luxury was
nothing but a background, a painted scene in a
play, and that power, power over other men,

340

TIIE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act u

power over the world was the one thing worth
having, tlie one supreme pleasure worth knowing,
the one joy one never tired of, and that in our
century only the rich possessed it.

LORD GORING [With great deliberalion], A thor-
oughly shallow creed.

SIR ROBERT ciiiLTERN [Rising]. I didn't think
so then. I don’t tliink so now. Wealth has given
me enormous power. It gave me at the ver>' out-
set of my life freedom, and freedom is everything.
You liave never been poor, and never known what
ambition is. You cannot understand what a w^on-
derful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance
as few men get.

LORD GORING. Fortimatcly for them, if one is to
judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did
the Baron finally persuade you to — well, to do
what you did?

SIR ROBERT cuiLTERN. When I was going away
he said to me that if 1 ever could give him any
private information of real value he would make
me a very rich man. I wns dazed at the prospect
he h(‘ld out to me, and my ambition and my desire
for power wore at that time boundless. vSix weeks
later certain private documents passi'd through
my hands.

LORD GORING [Keeping his eyes steadily fixed on
the carpet]. State documents?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, Ycs. [LORD GORING
sighs, then passes his hand across his forehead and
looks up.]

LORD GORING. I had no idea that you, of all

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

341

men in the world, could have been so weak, Rob-
ert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Am-
heim held out to you.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Weak? Oh, I am sick
of hearing that jihrase. Sick of using it about
others. Weak? Do you really think, Arthur, that
it is weakness that yields to temjitation? I tell you
that there arc terrible temptations that it requires
strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To
stake all one’s life on a single moment, to risk
ever}^thing on one tlirow, whether the stake be
power or pleiisure, I care not — there is no weak-
ness in that. There is a horrible, a terrible cour-
age. I had that courage. I sat down the same
afternoon and wtoIc Baron Arnheim the letter
this woman now holds. He made three-quarters
of a million over the transiiction.

LORD GORING. And you?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I leCvCivcd from the
Baron £110,000.

LORD GORING. You wcro worth more, Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; that moncy gave
me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I
went into the House immediately. The Baron
advised me in finance from time to time. Before
five years I had almost trebled my fortune. Since
then everything that I have touched has turned
out a success. In all things connected with money
I have had a luck so extraordinary that sometimes
it has made me almost afraid. I remember having
read somewhere, in some strange book, that when
the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.

342

IjIE plays of OSCAR WILDE [act n

LORD GORING. But tell iDC, Robert, did you
never suffer any regret for what you had done?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No. I felt that I had
fought the centuiy' with its own weapons, and won.

LORD GORING [Sadly]. You thougiit you had
won?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I thought SO. [After a
long pause.] Arthur, do you despise me for wliat
I have told you?

LORD GORING [With deep feeling in his voice].
I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry
indeed.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I don’t say that I suf-
fered any remorse. I didn’t. Not remorse in the
ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I
have paid conscience money many times. I had a
wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum
Baron Amheim gave me I have distributed twice
over in public charities since then.

LORD GORING [Looking up]. In public charities?
Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done,
Robert!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh, don’t say that, Ar-
thur; don’t talk like that.

LORD GORING. Never mind what I say, Robert.
I am always saying what 1 shouldn’t say. In fact, I
usually say what I really think. A great mistake
nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunder-
stood. As regards this dreadful business, I will
help you in whatever way I can. Of course you
know that.

SIB ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you, Arthur,

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

343

thank you. But what is to be done? What can
be done?

LORD GORING [Leaning back mth his hands in his
pockets]. Well, the English can’t stand a man who
is always saying he is in the right, but they are
very fond of a man who admits that he has been
in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them.
However, in your case, Robert, a confession would
not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so,
is . . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean
breast of the whole affair, you would never be able
to talk morality again. And in England a man
who can’t talk morality twice a week to a large,
popular, immoral audience is quite over as a se-
rious politician. There would be nothing left for
him as a profession except Botany or the Church.
A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It would ruin me. Ar-
thur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the
thing out.

LORD GORING [Rising from his chair]. I was wait-
ing for you to say that, Robert. It is the only
thing to do now. And you must begin by telling
your v/ife the whole story.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That I wUl not do.

LORD GORING. Robert, believe me, you are
wrong.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I COUldn’t do it. It
would kill her love for me. And now about this
woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend
myself against her. Y ou knew her before, Arthur,
apparently.

4

THE PLAYS OP OSCAR WILDE [act n

LORD GORING. YcS.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Did you know her well?
LORD GORING {Arranging his necktie]. So little
at I got engaged to be married to her once,
len I was staying at the Tenbys’. The affair
3ted for three days . . . nearly
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why was it broken off?
LORD GORING [Airily], Oh, I forget. At least, it
akes no matter. By the way, have you tried her
th money? She used to be confoundedly fond
money.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I offered her any sum
e wanted. She refused.

LORD GORING. Then the marvellous gospel of
Id breaks down sometimes. The rich can’t do
eiything, after all.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not everything. I sup-
se you are right, Arthur, I feel that public dis-
ice is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I
ver knew what terror was before. I know it
w. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one’s
art. It is as if one’s heart were beating itself to
ath in some empty hollow.

LORD GORING [Striking the table], Robert, you
ist fight her. Y ou must fight her.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But how?

LORD GORING. I Can’t tell you how, at present,
lave not the smallest idea. But everyone has
ne weak point. There is some flaw in each one
us. [Strolls over to the fireplace and looks at him-
f in the gioss.] My father tells me that even I
ve faults. Perhaps I have. I don’t know.

ACT n]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

3«6

SIB EOBEET CHiLTEEN. In defending myself
against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any
weapon I can find, have I not?

LOED GOBiNG [SHU looking in the ^Zoss]. In your
place I don’t think I should have the smallest
scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly well able to
take care of herself.

siE EOBEET CHILTEEN [Sits down at the table and
takes a pen in his hand] . Well, I shall send a cipher
telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if
there is anything known against her. There may
be some secret scandal she might be afraid of.

LOED GOEING [Settling his buttonhole]. Oh, I
shoidd fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very
modern women of our time who find a new scandal
as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in
the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure
she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life
at present is that she can’t manage to have enough
of them.

SIE EOBEET CHILTEEN [Writing], Why do you
say that?

LOED GOEING [Turning round]. Well, she wore
far too much rouge last night, and not quite
enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair
in a woman.

SIE EOBEET CHILTEEN [Striking a bell]. But it is
worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not?

LOED GOEING. It is always worth while asking
a question, though it is not always worth while
answering one.

lEnta MASON.l

346

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Is Mr. Trafford in his
room?

MASON. Yes, Sir Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Puis what he has written
into an envelope, which he then carefully closes].
Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once.
There must not be a moment’s delay.

MASON. Yes, Sir Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! just give that back
to me again.

[Writes something on the envelope, mason then
goes out with the letter.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She must have had some
curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder
what it was.

LORD GORING [Smiling]. I wonder.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I will fight her to the
death, as long as my wife knows nothing.

LORD GORING [Strongly]. Oh, fight in any case — ■
in any case.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [With a gesture of despair].
If my wife found out, there would be little left to
fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I
shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a
chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the
age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her
weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a wo-
man with a past, doesn’t she?

LORD GORING. Most pretty women do. But
there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion
in frocks. Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley’s past is mere-
ly a slightly d&collett one, and they are excessively

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

347

popular nowadays. Besides, my dear Robert,
I should not build too high hopes on frightening
Mrs. Cheveley. I should not fancy Mrs. Cheve-
ley is a woman who would be easily frightened.
She has survived all her creditors, and she shows
wonderful presence of mind.

SIB BOBERT CHiLTERN. Oh ! I live on hopes now.
I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a
ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet,
and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I
hear my wife’s voice.

[Enter lady chiltern in walking dress.]

LADY CHILTERN. Good aftemoon. Lord Goring!

LORD GORING. Good aftemoon, Lady Chiltern!
Have you been in the Park?

LADY CHILTERN. No : I have just come from the
Woman’s Liberal Association, where, by the way,
Robert, your name was received with loud ap-
plause, and now I have come in to have my tea. [To
LORD GORING.] You will Wait and have some tea,
won’t you?

LORD GORING. I’ll Wait for a short time, thanks.

LADY CHILTERN. I will be back in a moment.
I am only going to take my hat off.

LORD GORING [In his most earnest manner]. Oh!
please don’t. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest
hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman’s Liberal As-
sociation received it with loud applause.

LADY CHILTERN [With a smile]. We have much
more important work to do than to look at each
other’s bonnets. Lord Goring.

LORD GORING. Really? What sort of work?

848

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

LADY CHILTEBN. Oh! dull, uscful, delightful
things, Factory Acts, Female Inspectors, the
Eight Hours Bill, the Parliamentary Franchise.
. . . Everything, in fact, that you would find thor-
ouglily uninteresting.

LOED GOEiNG. And never bonnets?

LADY CHILTEBN [ With mock indignation]. Never
bonnets, never!

[lady CHILTEBN Qoes oiit through the door leading
to her boudoir.]

SIB BOBEBT CHILTEBN [Takes LOED GOBING’S
hand]. You have been a good friend to me, Ar-
thur, a thoroughly good friend.

LOBD GOEING. I don’t know that I have been
able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I
have not been able to do anything for you, as far
as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with
myself.

SIB BOBEBT CHILTEBN. Y ou have enabled me to
tell you the truth. That is something. The truth
has always stifled me.

LOED GOEING. Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid
of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way.
Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with
the older members. They call it being conceited.
Perhaps it is.

SIB BOBEBT CHILTEBN. I WOUld to God that I
had been able to tell the truth ... to live the
truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live
the truth. [Sighs, and goes towards the door.] I'll
see you soon again, Arthur, shan’t I?

LOBD GOEING. Certainly. Whenever you like.

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

349

I’m going to look in at the Bachelors’ Ball to-
night, unless I find something better to do. But
I’ll come round to-morrow morning. If you
should want me to-night by any chance, send
round a note to Curzon Street.

siE KOBERT CHILTERN. Thank you.

[As he reaches the door, lady chiltern enters
from her boudoir.]

LADY CHILTERN. You are not going, Robert?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I have some letters to
write, dear.

LADY CHILTERN [Going to him]. You work too
hard, Robert. You seem never to think of your-
self, and you are looking so tired.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is nothing dear, noth-
ing. [He kisses her and goes out.]

LADY CHILTERN [To LORD GORING]. Do sit down.
I am so glad you have called. I want to talk to
you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or the
Woman’s Liberal Association. You take far too
much interest in the first subject, and not nearly
enough in the second.

LORD GORING. You want to talk to me about
Mrs. Cheveley?

LADY CHILTERN. Yes. You have guessed it.
After you left last night I found out that what
she had said was really true. Of course I made
Robert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his
promise.

LORD GORING. So he gave me to understand.

LADY CHILTERN. To have kept it would have
been the first stain on a career that has been stain-

350

THE PLAYS OF OSCAK WILDE [act n

less always. Robert must be above reproach.
He is not like other men. He cannot afford to do
what other men do. [She looks at lord goring,
who remains sUenL] Don’t you agree with me?
You are Robert’s greatest friend. You are our
greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except my-
self, knows Robert better than you do. He has no
secrets from me, and I don’t think he has any from
you.

LORD GORING. He Certainly has no secrets from
me. At least I don’t think so.

LADY CHiLTERN. Then am I not right in my es-
timate of him? I know I am right. But speak to
me frankly.

LORD GORING [Looking straight at her]. Quite
frankly?

LADY CHILTERN. Surely. You have nothing to
conceal, have you?

LORD GORING. Nothing. But, my dear Lady
Chiltem, I think, if you will allow me to say so,
that in practical life

LADY CHILTERN [Smiling]. Of which you know
so little. Lord Goring

LORD GORING. Of which I know nothing by ex-
perience, though I know something by observa-
tion. I think that in practical life there is some-
thing about success, actual success, that is a little
unscrupulous, something about ambition that is
unscrupulous always. Once a man has set his
heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he
has to climb the crag, he climbs the crag; if he
has to walk in the mire

ACT IlJ

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

361

LADY CHILTEKN. Well?

LORD GORING. He walks in the mire. Of course
I am only talking generally about life.

LADY CHiLTERN [Gravely]. I hope so. Why do
you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring?

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltem, I have sometimes
thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard
in some of your views on life. I think that . . .
often you don’t make sufficient allowances. In
every nature there are elements of weakness, or
worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance,
that — that any public man, my father, or Lord
Merton, or Robert, say had, years ago, written
some foolish letter to some one . . ,

LADY CHILTERN. What do you mean by a fool-
ish letter?

LORD GORING. A letter gravely compromising
one’s position. I am only putting an imagii^ry
case.

LADY CHILTERN. Robert is as incapable of do-
ing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong thing.

LORD GORING [After a long •pause]. Nobody is
incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody is
incapable of doing a wrong thing.

LADY CHILTERN. Are you a Pessimist? What
will the other dandies say. They will all have to
go into mourning.

LORD GORING [Rising], No, Lady Chiltem, I
am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure that I
quite know what Pessimism really means. All I
do know is that life Cannot be understood without
much charity, cannot be hved without much char-

352

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

ity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is
the true explanation of this world, whatever may
be the explanation of the next. And if you are
ever in trouble. Lady Chiltem, trust me abso-
lutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If
you ever want me, come to me for my assistance,
and you shall have it. Come at once to me.

LADY CHiLTERN [Imking at him in surprise].
Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously. I
don’t think I ever heard you talk seriously before.

LORD GORING [Laughing]. You must excuse me,
Lady Chiltem. It won’t occur again, if I can help
it.

LADY CHILTERN. But I like you to be serious.

[Enter mabel chiltebn, in the most ravishing
frock.]

MABEL CHILTERN. Dear Gertrude, don’t say
such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Serious-
ness would be very unbecoming to him. Good af-
ternoon, Lord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you
can.

LORD GORING. I should like to. Miss Mabel,
but I am afraid lam. . .a little out of practice
this morning ; and besides, I have to be going now.

MABEL CHILTERN. Just when I have come in!
What dreadful manners you have I I am sure you
were very badly brought up.

LORD GORING. I was.

MABEL CHILTERN. I wish I had brought you up 1

LORD GORING. I am SO sony you didn’t.

MABEL CHILTEBN. It is too late now, I suppose?

LORD GORING [Smiling]. I am not sure.

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

353

MABEL CHiLTEEN. Will you ride to-morrow
morning?

LORD GORING. Ycs, at ten.

MABEL CHILTEEN. Don’t forget.

LORD GORING. Of couTse I shan’t. By the way,
Lady Chiltem, there is no list of your guests in
‘The Morning Post’ of to-day. It has appar-
ently been crowded out by the County Council,
or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally
boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a
particular reason for asking you.

LADY CHiLTERN. I am suTC Mr. 'Trafford will be
able to give you one.

LORD GORING. Thanks, so much.

MABEL CHILTERN. Tommy is the most useful
person in London.

LORD GORING [Turning to her]. And who is the
most ornamental?

MABEL CHILTERN [Triumphantly]. I am.

LORD GORING. How clevcr of you to guess it!
[Takes up his hat and cane.] Good-bye, Lady Chil-
tem! You will remember what I said to you,
won’t you?

LADY CHILTERN. Yes; but I don’t know why
you said it to me.

LORD GORING. I hardly know myself. Good-
bye, Miss Mabel!

MABEL CHILTERN [With c little irme of disap-
pointment]. I wish you were not going. I have
had four wonderful adventures this morning;
four and a half, in fact. You might stop and listen
to some of them.

354

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

LOBD GORING. How Very selfish of you to have
four and a half ! There won’t be any left for me.

MABEL CHiLTERN. I don’t want you to have
any. 'They would not be good for you.

LORD GORING. That is the first unkind thing
you have ever said to me. How charmingly you
said it! Ten to-morrow.

MABEL CHILTERN. Sharp.

LORD GORING. Quite sharp. But don’t bring
Mr. Trafford.

MABEL CHILTERN [With a liUlc toss of the headl.
Of course I shan’t bring Tommy Trafford. Tom-
my Trafford is in great disgrace.

LORD GORING. I am delighted to hear it. [Bows
and goes oui.]

MABEL CHILTERN. Gertrude, I wish you would
speak to Tommy Trafford.

LADY CHILTERN. What has poor Mr. Trafford
done this time? Robert says he is the best secre-
tary he has ever had.

MABEL CHILTERN. Well, Tommy has proposed
to me again. Tommy really- does nothing but
propose to me. He proposed to me last night in
the music-room, when I was quite unprotected,
as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn’t
dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly
tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music
at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreason-
able. They always want one to be perfectly
dumb at the very moment when one is longing to
be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in
broad daylight this morning, in front of that dread-

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

355

ful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that g.>
on in front of that work of art are quite appalling.
The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by
the glare in his eye that he was going to propose
again, and I just managed to check him in time by
assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortu-
nately I don’t know what bimetallism means.
And I don’t believe anybody else does either.
But the observation crushed Tommy for ten min-
utes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tom-
my is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he
proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind
so much. That might produce some effect on the
public. But he does it in a horrid confidential
way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he
talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of
Tommy, but his methods of proposing are quite
out of date. I wish, Gertrude, you would speak
to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often
enough to propose to anyone, and that it should
always be done in a manner that attracts some at-
tention.

LADY CHiLTEEN. Dear Mabel, don’t talk like
that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of Mr.
'Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future be-
fore him.

MABEL CHILTEEN. Oh ! I wouldn’t marry a man
with a future before him for anything imder the
sun.

LADY CHILTEEN. Mabel!

MABEL CHILTEEN. I know, dear. You mar-
ried a man with a future, didn’t you? But then

356

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

Robert was a genius, and you have a noble, self-
sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I
have no character at all, and Robert is the only ge-
nius I could ever bear. As a rule, I think they are
quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don’t
they? Such a bad habit! And they are always
thinking about themselves, when I want them to
be thinking about me. I must go round now and
rehearse at Lady Basildon’s. You remember, we
are having tableaux, don’t you? The Triumph of
something, I don’t know what! I hope it will be
triumph of me. Only triumph I am really inter-
ested in at present. [Kisses lady chiltern and
goes out; then comes running back.] Oh, Gertrude,
do you know who is coming to see you? That
dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown.
Did you ask her?

LADY CHILTERN [Rising], Mrs. Cheveley!
Coming to see me? Impossible!

MABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming
upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural.

LADY CHILTERN. You need not wait, Mabel.
Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you.

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh ! I must shake hands with
Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being
scolded by her.

[ErUer mason.]

MASON. Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.

[Enter lady markby and mrs. cheveley.]

LADY CHILTERN [Advancing to meet them]. Dear
Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and see
me! [Shakes hands with her, and bows somewhat

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

357

distantly to mbs. cheveley.] Won’t you sit down,
Mrs. Cheveley?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. Isn’t that Miss
Chiltem? I should like so much to know her.

LADY CHiLTERN. Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes
to know you. [mabel chiltebn gives a little nod.]

MRS. CHEVELEY [Sitting down]. I thought your
frock so charmii^ last night, Miss Chiltem. So
simple and . . . suitable.

MABEL CHILTERN. Really? I must tell my
dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her.
Good-bye, Lady Markby!

LADY MARKBY. Going already?

MABEL CHILTERN. I am SO soiTy but I am
obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have got
to stand on my head in some tableaux.

LADY MARKBY. On your head, child? Oh! I
hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy. [Takes
a seat on the sofa next lady chiltern.]

MABEL CHILTERN. But it is for an excellent
charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only peo-
ple I am really interested in. I am the secretaiy,
and Tommy Trafford is treasurer.

MRS. CHEVELEY. And what is Lord Goring?

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! Lord Goring is presi-
dent.

MRS. CHEVELEY. The post should suit him ad-
mirably, unless he has deteriorated since I knew
him first.

LADY MARKBY [Reftecling]. You are remarkably
modem, Mabel. A little too modem, perhaps.
Nothing is so dangerous as being too modem.

358

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE ,[act n

One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly.
I have known many instances of it.

MABEL CHiLTEBN. What a dreadful prospect!

LADY MARKBY. Ah! my dear, you need not be
nervous. Y ou will always be as pretty as possible.
That is the best fashion there is, and the only fash-
ion that England succeeds in setting.

MABEL CHILTEBN {With, a curlsey]. Thank you
so much. Lady Markby, for England . . . and
myself. [Goes out.]

LADY MABKBY [Turning to lady chiltebn].
Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs.
Gheveley’s diamond brooch has been found.

lady chiltebn. Here?

MBS. cheveley. Yes. I missed it when I got
back to Claridge’s, and I thought I might possibly
have dropped it here.

LADY CHILTEBN. I have heard nothing about it.
But I will send for the butler and ask. [Touches
the hell.]

MBS. CHEVELEY. Oh, pray, don’t trouble. Lady
Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before
we came on here.

LADY MARKBY. Ah, yes, I suppose it must have
been at the Opera. The fact is, we all scramble and
jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have
anything at all left on us at the end of an evening.
I know myself that, when I am coming back from
the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn’t a
shred on me, except a small shred of decent repu-
tation, just enough to prevent the lower classes
making painful observations through the windows

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

359

of the carriage. The fact is that our Society is
terribly overpopulated. Really, some one should
arrange a proper scheme of assisted emigration.
It would do a great deal of good.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I quite agree with you, Lady
Markby. It is nearly six years since I have been
in London for the season, and I must say Society
has become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest
people everywhere.

LADY MARKBY. That is quite true, dear. But
one needn’t know them. I’m sure I don’t know
half the people who come to my house. Indeed,
from all I hear, I shouldn’t like to.

[Enter mason.]

LADY CHiLTERN. What sort of a brooch was it
that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley?

MRS. CHEVELEY. A diamond snake-brooch with
a ruby, a rather large ruby.

LADY MARKBY. I thought you Said there was a
sapphire on the head, dear?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Smiling]. No, Lady Markby—
a ruby.

LADY MARKBY [Nodding her head]. And very
becoming, I am quite sure.

LADY CHILTERN. Has a ruby and diamond
brooch been found in any of the rooms this morn-
ing, Mason?

MASON. No, my lady.

MRS. CHEVELEY. It really is of no consequence,
Lady Chiltem. I am so sorry to have put you to
any inconvenience.

LADY CHILTERN [Coldly]. Oh, it has been no in-

860

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act u

convenience. That will do, Mason. You can
bring tea.

LADY MARKET. Well, I must say it is most an*
noying to lose anything. I remember once at
Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an ex-
ceedingly handsome cameo bracelet that Sir John
had given me. I don’t think he has ever given me
anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly
degenerated. Really, this horrid House of Com-
mons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the
Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy
married life that there has been since that terrible
thing called the Higher Education of Women was
invented.

LADY CHiLTERN. Ah! it is heresy to say that in
this house. Lady Markby. liobert is a great
champion of the Higher Education of Women, and
so, I am afraid, am I.

MRS. CHEVELEY. The higher education of men
is what I should like to see. Men need it so sadly.

LADY MARKET. They do, dear. But I am afraid
such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don’t
think man has much capacity for development.
He has got as far as he can, and that is not far, is
it? With regard to women, well, dear Gertrude,
you belong to the yoimger generation, and I am
sure it is all right if you approve of it. In my
time, of coimse, we were taught not to understand
ansrihing. That was the old system, and wonder-
fully interesting it was. I assure you that the
amoimt of things I and my poor dear sister were
taught not to understand was quite extraordinary.

ACT ll]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

361

But modem women understand ever5d;hing, I am
told.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Except their husbands. That
is the one thing the modern woman never imder-
stands.

LADY MARKBY. And a Very good thing too,
dear, I dare say. It might break up many a happy
home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say,
Gertrude. You have married a pattern husband.
I wish I could say as much for myself. But since
Sir John has taken to attending the debates regu-
larly, which he never used to do in the good old
days, his language has become quite impossible.
He always seems to think that he is addressing the
House, and consequently whenever he discusses
the state of the agricultural labourer, or the Welsh
Church, or something quite improper of that kind,
I am obliged to send all the servants out of the
room. It is not pleasant to see one’s own butler,
who has been with one for twenty-three years,
actually blushing at the sideboard, and the foot-
men making contortions in comers like persons in
circuses. I assure you my life will be quite
mined unless they send John at once to the Upper
House. He won’t take any interest in politics
then, will he? The House of Lords is so sensible.
An assembly of gentlemen. But in his present
state, Sir John is really a great trial. Why, this
morning before breakfast was half over, he stood
up on the hearthrug, put his hands in his pockets
and appealed to the country at the top of his voice.
I left the table as soon as I had my second cup of

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

tea, I need hardly say. But his violent language
could be heard all over the house! I trust, Ger-
trude, that Sir Robert is not like that?

LADY CHILTERN. But I am very much interested
in politics. Lady Markby. I love to hear Robert
talk about them.

LADY MARKBY. Well, I hope he is not as de-
voted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don’t think
they can be quite improving reading for anyone.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Languidly]. I have never read
a Blue Book. I prefer books ... in yellow covers.

LADY MARKBY [Genially unconscious]. Yellow is
a gayer colour, is it not? I used to wear yellow a
good deal in my early days, and would do so now
if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his ob-
servations, and a man on the question of dress is
always ridiculous, is he not?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, no! I think men are the
only authorities on dress.

LADY MARKBY. Really? One wouldn’t say so
from the sort of hats they wear, would one?

[The butler enters, followed by the footman. Tea
is set on a small table close to lady chiltern.]

LADY CHILTERN. May I give you some tea,
Mrs. Cheveley?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. [The butler hands
MRS. CHEVELEY a cup of tea on a salver.]

LADY CHILTERN. Some tea, Lady Markby?

LADY MARKBY. No, thanks, dear. [The servants
go Old.] The fact is, I have promised to go round
for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who
is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

363

well-brought up girl, too, has actually become en-
gaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It
is very sad, very sad, indeed. I can’t under-
stand this modem mania for curates. In my time
we girls saw them, of course, running about the
place like rabbits. But we never took any notice
of them, I need hardly say. But I am told that
nowadays country society is quite honeycombed
with them. I think it most irreligious. And then
the eldest son has quarrelled with his father,
and it is said that when they meet at the club
Lord Brancaster always hides himself behind the
money article in ‘The Times.’ However, I be-
lieve that is quite a common occurrence nowadays
and that they have to take in extra copies of ‘The
Times’ at all the clubs in St. James’s Street;
there are so many sons who won’t have anything
to do with their lathers, and so many fathers who
won’t speak to their sons. I think myself, it is
very much to be regretted.

MRS. CHEVELEY. So do I. Fathers have so
much to learn from their sons nowadays.

LADY MARKBY. Really, dear? What?

MRS. CHEVELEY. The art of living. The only
really Fine Art we have produced in modem times.

LADY MARKBY [Shaking her head]: Ah! I am
afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about
that. More than his poor wife ever did. [Turning
to LADY CHiLTERN.] You know Lady Brancaster,
don’t you, dear?

LADY CHILTERN. Just slightly. She was stay-
ing at Langton last autumn, when we were there.

364

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

LADY MAHKBY. Well, like all stout women, she
looks the very picture of happiness, as no doubt
you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her
family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own
sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy life;
through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say.
She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she
went into a convent, or on to the operatic stage, I
foiget which. No; I think it was decorative art-
needlework she took up. I know she had lost all
sense of pleasure in life. [Rising.] And Gertrude,
if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in
your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an
hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you
wouldn’t mind waiting in the carriage wliile I am
with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit
of condolence, I shan’t stay long.

MBS. CHKVELEY [Rising]. 1 don’t mind waiting
in the carriage at all, provided there is somebody
to look at one.

LADY MARKBY. Well, I hear the curate is always
prowling about tlie house.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I am afraid I am not fond of
girl friends.

LADY CHiLTERN [Rising]. Oh, I hope Mrs.
Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to
have a few minutes’ conversation with her.

MRS. CHEVELEY. How Very kind of you. Lady
Chiltem! Believe me, nothing would give me
greater pleasure.

LADY MARKBY. Ah! no doubt you both have
many pleasant reminiscences of your schooldays

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

365

to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude!
Shall I see you at Lady Bonar’s to-night? She has
discovered a wonderful new genius. He does . . .
nothing at all, I believe. That is a great comfort,
is it not?

L-VDY CHiLTEKN. Robert and I are dining at
home by ourselves to-night, and I don’t think I
shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course,
will have to be in the House. But there is nothing
interesting on.

LADY MARKBY. Dining at home by yourselves?
Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your husband
is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and
nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having mar-
ried the general rule. [Exit lady markby.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Wonderful woman. Lady
Markby, isn’t she? Talks more and says less than
anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public
speaker. Much more so than her husband, though
he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usual-
ly violent.

LADY CHiLTERN [Makes no answer, but remains
standing. There is a pause. Then the eyes of the
two women meet, lady CfflLTERN looks stern and
pale. MRS. CHEVELEY seems rather amused.] Mrs.
Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite
frankly that, had I known who you really were, I
should not have invited you to my house last
night.

MRS. CHEVELEY [With an impertinent smile].
Really?

LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so.

966

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

MBS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these yeara
you have not changed a bit, Gertrude.

LADY CHiLTEBN. I never change.

MBS. CHEVELEY [Elevaling her eyebrmvs]. Then
life has taught you nothing?

LADY CHILTEBN. It has taught me that a per-
son who has once been guilty of a dishonest and
dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second
time, and should be shunned.

MBS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to
everyone?

LADY CHILTEBN. Ycs, to everyone, without
exception.

MBS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you,
Gertrude, very sorry for you.

LADY CHILTEBN. You sce now, I am sure, that
for many reasons any further acquaintance be-
tween us during your stay in London is quite im-
possible?

MBS. CHEVELEY [Leaning back in her chair.] Do
you know, Gertrude, I don’t mind your talking
morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we
adopt towards people whom we personally dislike.
You dislike me. I am quite aware of that. And
I have always detested you. And yet I have come
here to do you a service.

LADY CHILTEBN [Contempiuously]. Like the serv-
ice you wished to render my husband last night, I
suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that.

MBS. CHEVELEY [Siarting to her feet]. It was you
who made him write that insolent letter to me?
It was you who made him break his promise?

ACT nl

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

367

LADY CHILTEEN. YeS.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep
it. I give you till to-morrow morning — no more.
If by that time your husband does not solemnly
bind himself to help me in this great scheme in
which I am interested

LADY CHILTEEN. This fraudulent speculation —

MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold
your husband in the hollow of my hand, and if you
are wise you will make him do what I tell him.

LADY CHILTEEN [Rising and going towards her].
You are impertinent. What has my husband to
do with you? With a woman like you?

MRS. CHEVELEY [With o bitter laugh]. In this
world like meets with like. It is because your
husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that
we pair so well together. Between you and him
there are chasms. He and I are closer than
friends. We are enemies linked together. The
same sin binds us.

LADY' CHILTEEN. How dare you class my hus-
band with yourself? How dare you threaten him
or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter
it.

[sir ROBERT CHILTEEN enters from behind. He
hears his wife’s last words, and sees to whom they are
addressed. He grows deadly pale.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Your house! A house bought
with the price of dishonour. A house, everything
in which has been paid for by fraud. [Turns round
and sees sir Robert chiltern.] Ask him what
the origin of his fortime is! Get him to tell you

368 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret.
Leam from him to what you owe your position.

LADY CHiLTERN. It is not true! Robert! It is
not true!

MRS. CHEVELEY [Pointing at him mth outstretched
finger]. Look at him! Can he deny it? Does he
dare to?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Go! Go at oncc. You
have done your worst now.

MRS. CHEVELEY. My worst? I have not yet fin-
ished with you, with either of you. I give you both
till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don’t do
what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know
the origin of Robert Chiltem.

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN strikes the bell. Enter
MASON.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Show Mrs. Cheveley
out.

[MRS. CHEVELEY starts; then bows with somewhat
exaggerated politeness to lady chiltern, who makes
no sign of response. As she passes by sir Robert
CHILTERN, who is standing close to the door, she
pauses for a moment and looks him straight in the
face. She then goes out, followed by the servant,
who closes the door after him. The husband and
wife are left alone, lady chiltern stands like
some one in a dreadful dream. Then she turns
round and looks at her husband. She looks at him
with strange eyes, as though she was seeing him for
the first time.]

LADY CHILTERN. You sold a Cabinet secret for
money! You began your life with fraud! You

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

369

built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me
it is not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me
it is not true!

SIR ROBERT CHiLTEKN. What this Woman said
is quite true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You
don’t realise how I was tempted. Let me tell
you the whole thing. [Goes towards her.]

LADY CHiLTERN. Don’t come near me. Don’t
touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me forever.
Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these
years ! A horrible painted mask ! Y ou sold your-
self for money. Oh ! a common thief were better.
You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder!
You were bought in the market. You lied to the
whole world. And yet you will not lie to me.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Rushing towords Acr].
Gertrude! Gertrude!

LADY CHILTERN [Thrusting him back ivith out-
stretched hands]. No, don’t speak! Say nothing!
Your voice wakes terrible memories — memories of
things that made me love you — memories of words
that made me love you — memories that now are
horrible to me. And how 1 worshipped you!
You were to me something apart from common
life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain.
The world seemed to me finer because you were in
it, and goodness more real because you lived. And
now — oh, when I think that I made of a man like
you my ideal! the ideal of my life!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There was your mistake.
There was your error. The error all women com-
mit. Why can’t you women love us, faults and all?

m THE PLAYS OP OSCAR WIliDE [act n

Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We
have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but
when we men love women, we love them knowing
their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections,
love them all the more, it may be, for that reason.
It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have
need of love. It is when we are wounded by our
own hands, or by the hands of others, that love
should come to cure us — else what use is love at
all? All sins, except a sin against itself. Love
should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true
Love should pardon. A man's love is like that.
It is wider, larger, more human than a woman’s.
Women think that they are making ideals of men.
What they are making of us arc false idols merely.
You made your false idol of me, and I had not
the courage to come down, show you my wounds,
tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might
lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last
night you ruined my life for me — ^yes, ruined it!
What this woman asked of me was nothing com-
pared to what she offered to me. She offered se-
curity, peace, stability. The sin of my youth,
that I had thought was buried, rose up in front of
me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my
throat. I could have killed it forever, sent it back
into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the
one witness against me. You prevented me. No
one but you, you know it. And now what is there
before me but public disgrace, ruin, terrible shame,
the mockery of the world, a lonely, dishonoured
life, a lonely, dishonoured death, it may be, some

ACT II]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

371

day! Let women make no more ideals of men! let
them not put them on altars and bow before them,
or they may ruin other lives as completely as you —
you whom I have so wildly loved — have ruined
mine!

{He passes from the room, lady chiltebn
rushes towards him, but the door is closed when she
reaches it. Pale with anguish, bewildered, helpless,
she sways like a plant in the water. Her hands, out-
stretched, seem to tremble in the air like blossoms in
the wind. Then she flings herself down beside a sofa
and buries her face. Her sobs are like the sobs of a
chad.]

Act-dbop

ACT III

Scene — The Library in lord coking's house.
An Adams room. On the right is the door leading
into the hall. On the left, the door of the smoking-
room. A pair of folding doors at the back open into
the drawing-room. The fire is lit. phipps, the
butler, is arranging some newspapers on the writing-
table. The distinction of phipps is his impassivity.
He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler.
The Sphinx is not so incommunicable. He is a
mask with a manner. Of his intellectual or emo-
tional life history knows nothing. He represents
the dominance of form.

[Enter lord goring in evening dress with a but-
tonhole. He is wearing a silk hat and Inverness
cape. White-gloved, he carries a Louis Seize cane.
His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion. One
sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life,
makes it indeed, and so masters it. He is the first
well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought.]
LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for
me, Phipps?

PHIPPS. Y es, my lord. [Takes his hat, cane and
cape, and presents new buttonhole on salver.]

LORD GORING. Ratlicr distinguished thing,
Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest im-
portance in London at present who wears a but-
tonhole.

372

ACT m]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

373

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that.

LORD GORING [Taking out old buttonhole]. You
see, Phipps, Fashion is what one wears oneself.
What is unfashionable is what other people wear.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the
conduct of other people.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING [Putting in new buttonhole]. And
falsehoods the truths of other people.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful.
The only possible society is oneself.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning
of a life-long romance, Phipps.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING [Looking at himself in the glass].
Don’t think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps.
Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost
in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?

PHIPPS. I don’t observe any alteration in your
lordship’s appearance.

LORD GORING. You don’t, Phipps?

PHIPPS. No, my lord.

LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the
future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on
Thursday evenings.

PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord.
She has had a loss in her family lately, which per-
haps accounts for the lack of triviality your lord-
ship complains of in the buttonhole.

374

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the
lower classes in England — ^they are always losing
their relations.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely
fortunate in that respect.

LORD GORING [Turns round and looks at him.
PHIPPS remains impassive]. Hum! Any letters,
Phipps?

PHIPPS. Three, my lord. (Hands letters on a
salver.]

LORD GORING [Takes letters]. Want my cab
round in twenty minutes.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [Goes towards door.]

LORD GORING [Holds up letter in pink envelope].
Ahem ! Phipps, when did this letter arrive?

PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after
your lordship went to the Club.

LORD GORING. That will do. [Exit phipps.J
Lady Chiltem’s handwriting on Lady Chiltem’s
pink notepaper. That is rather curious. I
thought Robert was to write. Wonder what
Lady Chiltem has got to say to me? [Site at
bureau and opens letter, and reads it.] ‘I want
you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Ger-
trude.’ [Puts down the letter with a puzzled look.
Then takes it up, and reads it again slowly.] ‘I
want you. I trust you. I am coming to you.’
So she has found out everything! Poor woman!
Poor woman! [Pulls out watch and looks at it.]
But what an hour to call! Ten o’clock! I shall
have to give up going to the Berkshires’. How-
ever, it is always nice to be expected, and not to

ACT m] AN IDEAL HUSBAND 176

arrive. I am not expected at the Bachelors’, so I
shall certainly go there. Well, I will make her
stand by her husband. That is the only thing for
her to do. That is the only thing for any woman
to do. It is the growth of the moral sense in
women that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-
sided institution. Ten o’clock. She should be
here soon. I must tell Phipps I am not in to any-
one else. [Goes towards bell.]

[Enter phipps.]

PHIPPS. Lord Caversham.

LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always
appear at the wrong time? Some extraordinary
mistake in nature, I suppose. [Enter lord
CAVERSHAM.] Delighted to see you, my dear
father. [Goes to meet him.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off.

LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while,
sir. Which is the most comfortable chair?

LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the
chair I use myself, when I have visitors.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I
hope, in this room?

LORD GORING. No, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Sitting dotvn]. Glad to hear
it. Can’t stand draughts. No draughts at home.

LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don’t under-
stand what you mean. Want to have a serious
conversation with you, sir.

LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour?

aip THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDL [act iu

LOBD CAVEHSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten
o’clock. What is your objection to the hour?
I think the hour is an admirable hour!

LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is
not my day for talking seriously. I am very
sorry, but it is not my day.

LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir?

LORD GORING. During the season, father, I
only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every
month, from four to seven.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir,
make it Tuesday.

LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and
my doctor says I must not have any serious con-
versation after seven. It makes me talk in my
sleep.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir?
What does that matter? You are not married.

LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum ! That is what I have
come to talk to you about, sir. You have got to
get married, and at once. Why, when I was your
age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for
three months, and was already paying my ad-
dresses to your admirable mother. Damme, sir,
it is your duty to get married. You can’t be
always living for pleasure. Every man of posi-
tion is married nowadays. Bachelors are not
fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot.
Too much is known about them. You must get
a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert
Chiltem has got to by probity, hard work, and a

ACT ni]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

377

sensible marriage with a good woman. Why
don’t you imitate him, sir? Why don’t you take
him for your model?

LORD GORING. I think I shall, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir.
Then I should be happy. At present I make your
mother’s life miserable on your • account. You
are heartless, sir, quite heartless.

LORD GORING. I hope not, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you
to get married . Y ou are thirty -four years of age, sir.

LORD GORING. Ycs father, but I only admit to
thirty-two— thirty-one and a half when I have a
really good buttonhole. This buttonhole is not
. . trivial enough.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-
four, sir. And there is a draught in your room,
besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why
did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel
a draught, sir, I feel it distinctly.

LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful
draught. I will come and see you to-morrow,
father. We can talk over anything you like.
Let me help you on with your cloak, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this
evening for a definite purpose, and I am going to
see it through at all costs to my health or yours.
Put down my cloak, sir.

LORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us
go into another room. [Rings heU.] There is a
dreadful draught here. [Enter phipps.] Phipps,
is there a good fire in the smoking-room?

378

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your
sneezes are quite heart-rending.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have
a right to sneeze when I choose?

LORD GORING [Apologelically]. Quite so, father.
I was merely expressing sympathy.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There
is a great deal too much of that sort of thing going
on nowadays.

LORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father.
If there was less sympathy in the world there
would be less trouble in the world.

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Going towards the smoking-
room]. That is a paradox, sir. I hate paradoxes.

LORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody
one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great
bore. It makes society so obvious.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Turning round, and looking
at Ms son beneath his bushy eyebrows]. Do you
always really understand what you say, sir?

LORD GORING [After some hesitation]. Yes,
father, if I listen attentively.

LORD CAVERSHAM [IndignanUy]. If you listen
attentively! . . . Conceited young puppy!

[Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room.
PHIPPS enters.]

LORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming
to see me this evening on particular business.
Show her into the drawing-room when she arrives.
You understand?

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

879

LORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest
importance, Phipps.

PHIPPS. I understand, my lord.

LORD GORING. No One olse is to be admitted,
under any circumstances.

PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [BcU rings.]

LORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady.
I shall see her myself.

[Just as he is going towards the door lord cavee-
SHAM enters from the smoking-roo7n].

lord caversham. Well, sir? am I to wait
attendance on you?

LORD GORING [Considerably perplexed]. In a
moment, father. Do excuse me. [lord cavee-
SHAM goes back.] Well, remember my instruc-
tions, Phipps — into that room.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

[lord goring goes into the smoking-room.
HAROLD, the footman, shows MRS. cheveley in.
Lamia-like, she is in green and silver. She has
a cloak of black satin, lined with dead rose-leaf silk.]

HAROLD. What name, madam?

MRS. cheveley [To PHIPPS, who advances towards
her]. Is Lord Goring not here? I was told he
was at home?

PHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present
with Lord Caversham, madam.

[Turns a cold, glassy eye on eiaeold, who at once
retires.]

MRS. CHEVELEY [To herself]. How very filial!

PHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you,
madam, to be kind enough to wait in the drawing-

380 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

room for him. His lordship will come to you
there.

MBS. CHEVELEY [With a look of surprise]. Lord
Goring expects me?

PHIPPS. Yes, madam.

MR^:. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure?

PHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady
called I was to ask her to wait in the drawing-
room. [Goes io the door of the draioing-room and
opens it.] His lordship’s directions on the sub-
ject were very precise.

MRS. CHEVELEY [To herself]. How thoughtful of
him! To expect the unexpected shows a thorough-
ly modern intellect. [Goes towards the dratving-
room and looks in.] Ugh! How dreary a bache-
lor’s drawing-room always looks. I shall have to
alter all this [phipps brings the lamp from the writ-
ing-table.] No, I don’t care for that lamp. It is
far too glaring. Light some candles.

PHIPPS [Replaces lamp]. Certainly, madam.

MBS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very
becoming shades.

PHIPPS. We have had no complaints about
them, madam, as yet.

[Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light
the candles.]

MRS. CHEVELEY [To herself]. I wonder what
woman he is waiting for to-night. It will be de-
lightful to catch him. Men always look so silly
when they are caught. And they are always
being caught. [Looks about room and approaches
the writing-table.] What a very interesting room!

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

381

What a very interesting picture! Wonder what
his correspondence is like. [Takes up letters.]
Oh, what a very uninteresting correspondence!
Bills and cards, debts and dowagers! Who on
earth writes to him on pink paper? How silly
to write on pink paper! It looks like the begin-
ning of a middle-class romance. Romance should
never begin with sentiment. It should begin
with science and end with a settlement. [Puts
letter down, then takes it up again.] I know that
hand-writing. That is Gertrude Chiltern’s. I
remember it perfectly. The ten commandments
in every stroke of the pen, and the moral law all
over the page. Wonder what Gertrude is writing
to him about? Something horrid about me, I
suppose. How I detest that woman ! [Reads it.]
* I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you,
Gertrude.' H trust you. I want you. I am com-
ing to you.'

[A look of triumph comes over her face. She is
just about to steal the letter, when phipps comes in.]
PHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are
lit, madam, as you directed.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [Rises hastily,
and slips the letter under a large silver-cased blotting-
book that is lying on the table.]

PHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your
liking, madam. They are the most becoming we
have. They are the same as his lordship uses
himself when he is dressing for dinner.

MRS. CHEVELEY [With a smile]. Then I am sure
they will be perfectly right.

382

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

PHIPPS [Gravely], Thank you, madam.

[MRS. CHEVELEY gocs iuto the dramng-room.
PHIPPS doses the door and retires. The door is
then slowly opened, and mrs. cheveley cennes out
and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table.
Suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room.
MRS. CHEVELEY grotvs pale, and stops. The valces
grow louder, and she goes back into the drawing-
room, biting her lip.]

[Enter lord goring and lord caversham.]

LORD GORING [Expostulating]. My dear father,
if I am to get married, surely you will allow me to
choose the time, place and person? Particularly
the person.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Testily]. That is a matter for
me, sir. You would probably make a very poor
choice. It is I who should be consulted, not you.
There is property at stake. It is not a matter for
affection. Affection comes later on in married
life.

LORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection
comes when people thoroughly dislike each other,
father doesn’t it? [Puts on lord caversham’s
doak for him.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean cer-
tainly not, sir. You are talking very foolishly to-
night. What I say is that marriage is a matter
for common sense.

LORD GORING. But womcn who have common
sense are so curiously plain, father, aren’t they?
Of course I only speak from hearsay.

LORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty,

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

383

has any common sense at all, sir. Common sense
is the privilege of our sex.

LORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so
self-sacrificing that we never use it, do we, father?

LORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing
else.

LORD GORING. So my mother tells me.

LORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your
mother’s happiness. You arc very heartless, sir,
very heartless.

LORD GORING. I hopc iiot, father.

[Goes Old for a moment. Then returns, looking
rather put oid, with sir Robert chiltern.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what
a piece of good luck meeting you on the doorstep!
Your servant had just told me you were not at
home. How extraordinary!

LORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy
to-night, Robert, and I gave orders I was not at
home to anyone. Even my father had a com-
paratively cold reception. He complained of a
draught the whole time.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. All! you must be at
home to me, Arthur. You are my best friend.
Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend.
My wife has discovered eveiydhing.

LORD GORING. Ah! I gucsscd as much!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Looking at him]. Really !
How?

LORD GORING [After some hesitation]. Oh, mere-
ly by something in the expression of your face as
you came in. Who told her?

884 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Chevcley herself.
And the woman I love knows that I began my career
with an act of low dishonesty, that I built up my
life upon the sands of shame — that I sold, like a
common huckster, the secret that had been in-
trusted to me as a man of honour. I thank
heaven poor Lord Radley died without knowing
that I betrayed him. I would to God I had died
before I had been so horribly tempted, or had
fallen so low. [Burying his face in his hands.]

LORD GORING [After a pause]. You have heard
nothing from Vienna yet, in answer to your wire?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Looking up]. Yes; I got
a telegram from the first secretary at eight o’clock
to-night.

LORD GORING. Well?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely
known against her. On the contrary, she occu-
pies a rather high position in society. It is a
sort of open secret that Baron Amheim left her
the greater portion of his immense fortune. Be-
yond that I can learn nothing.

LORD GORING. She doesn’t turn out to be a
spy, then?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use
nowadays. Their profession is over. The news-
papers do their work instead.

LORD GORING. And thunderingly well they
do it.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched
with thirst. May I ring for something? Some
hock and seltzer?

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

385

LORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [Rings the
hell]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks ! I don’t know
what to do, Arthur, I don’t know what to do, and
you are ray only friend. But what a friend you
are — the one friend I can trust. I can trust you
absolutely, can’t I?

[Enter phipps.]

LORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course.
Oh ! [To PHIPPS.] Bring some hock and seltzer.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. And Phipps!

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a mo
ment, Robert? I want to give some directions to
my servant.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly.

LORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her
that I am not expected home this evening. Tell
her that I have been suddenly called out of town.
You understand?

PHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord.
You told me to show her into that room, my
lord.

LORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [Exit
PHIPPS.] What a mess I am in. No; I think I
shall get through it. I’ll give her a lecture through
the door. Awkward thing to manage, though.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I
should do. My life seems to have crumbled about
me. I am a ship without a rudder in a night with-
out a star.

386

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

LORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don’t
you?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love hcr more than
anything in the world. I used to think ambition
the great thing. It is not. Love is the great thing
in the world. There is nothing but love, and I love
her. But I am defamed in hcr eyes. I am ignoble
in her eyes. There is a wide gulf between us now.
She has found me out, Arthur, she has found me
out.

LORD GORING. Has she never in her life done
some folly — some indiscretion — that she should
not forgive your sin?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Ncvcrl She
does not know what weakness or temptation is.
I am of clay hke other men. She stands apart as
good women do — pitiless in hcr perfection — cold
and stern and without mercy. But I love hcr, Ar-
thur. We are childless, and I have no one else to
love, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had
sent us children she might have been kinder to me.
But God has given us a lonely house. And she has
cut my heart in two. Don’t let us talk of it. I was
brutal to her this evening. But I suppose when
sinners talk to saints they are brutal always. I
said to her things that were hideously true, on my
side, from my standpoint, from the standpoint of
men. But don’t let us talk of that.

LORD GORING. Your wifc will forgive you. Per-
haps at this moment she is forgiving you. She
loves you, Robert. Why should she not forgive?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God

ACT m]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

387

grant it! [Buries his face in Ms hands.] But there
is something more I have to tell you, Arthur.

[Enter phipps with drinks.]

PHIPPS [Hands hock and seltzer to siK robeet
chiltern]. Hock and seltzer, sir.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you.

LORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No ; I Walked from the club.

LORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab,
Phipps.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Robert, you don’t mind my
sending you away?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let
me stay for five minutes. I have made up my
mind what I am going to do to-night in the House.
The debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at
eleven. [A chair fcdls in the drawing-room.]
What is that?

LORD GORING. Nothing.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in
the next room. Some one has been listening.

LORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one.
There are lights in the room, and the door is ajar.
Some one has been listening to every secret of my
life. Arthur, what does this mean?

LORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, un-
nerved. I tell you there is no one in that room.
Sit down, Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your
word that there is no one there?

388

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

LOBD GORING. Yes.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honouT?
down.]

LORD GORING. Ycs.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Eiscs]. Arthur, let me
see for myself.

LORD GORING. No, no.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there
why should I not look in that room? Arthur, you
must let me go into that room and satisfy myself.
Let me know that no eavesdropper has heard my
life’s secret. Arthur, you don’t realise what I am
going through.

LORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have
told you that there is no one in that room — that is
enough.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Rushcs to the door of the
room]. It is not enough. I insist on going into
this room. Y ou have told me there is no one there,
so what reason can you have for refusing me?

LORD GORING. For God’s sake, don’t! There is
some one there. Some one whom you must not
see.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought SO I

LORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is
at stake. And I don’t care who is there. I will
know who it is to whom I have told my secret and
my shame. [Enters room.]

LORD GORING. Great Heaven! his own wife!

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN comes back, with a look of
scorn and anger on his face.]

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

389

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. What explanation have
you to give me for the presence of that woman
here?

LORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my
honour that that lady is stainless and guiltless of
all offence towards 3^ou.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. She is a vilc, an infa-
mous thing!

LORD GORING. Don’t say that, Robert ! It was
for your sake she came here. It was to try and
save you she came here. She loves you and no
one else.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You arc mad. What
have I to do with her intrigues with you? Let her
remain your mistress! You are well suited to
each other. She, coiTupt and shameful — you,
false as a friend, treacherous as an enemy even

LORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before
heaven, it is not true. In her presence and in
yours I will explain all.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You
have lied enough upon your word of honour.

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN gOCS OuL LORD GORING
riLshes to the door of the drawing-roorriy when MRS.
CHEVELEY com^es out, looking radiant and much
amused.]

MRS. CHEVELEY [With a mock curtsey]. Good
evening, Lord Goring!

LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley ! Great Heavens I
. . . May I ask what you were doing in my draw-
ing-room?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a

390

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

perfect passion for listening through keyholes. One
always hears such wonderful things througli them.

LOKT) GORING. Docsii't that souiid rather like
tempting Providence?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh ! surcly Providence can re-
sist temptation by this time. [Makes a sign to him
to take her cloak of, which he does.]

LORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am
going to give you some good advice.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don’t. One should
never give a woman anything that she can’t wear
in the evening.

LORD GORING. I sce you are quite as willful as
you used to be,

MRS. CHEVELEY. Far more ! I have greatly im-
proved. I have had more experience.

LORD GORING. Too much experience is a dan-
gerous thing. Pray have a cigarette. Half the
pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Per-
sonally I prefer the other half.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My
dressmaker wouldn’t like it, and a woman’s first
duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn’t it? What
the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered.

LORD GORING. You have come here to sell me
Robert Chiltem’s letter, haven’t you?

MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on condi-
tions. How did you guess that?

LORD GORING. Because you haven’t mentioned
the subject. Have you got it with you?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Sitting down]. Oh, no! A well-
made dress has no pockets.

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

391

LOKD GORING. What is your price for it?

MRS. CHE VELE Y. How absurdly English you are I
The English think that a cheque-book can solve
every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I
have very much more money than you have, and
quite as much as Robert Chiltcrn has got hold of.
Money is not what I want.

LORD GORING. Wliat do vou Want then, Mrs.
Chcvelcy?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don’t you call me Laura?

LORD GORING. I don’t like the name.

MRS. CHEVELEY. You uscd to adore it.

LORD GORING. Yes; that’s why. [mrs. cheve-
LEY motions to him to sit down beside her. He
smiles, and does 50.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once.

LORD GORING. Yes.

MRS. CHEVELEY. And VOU askcd me to be your
wife.

LORD GORING. That was the natural result of
my loving you.

MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over be-
cause you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord
Mortlakc trying to have a violent flirtation with
me in the conservatory at Tenby.

LORD GORING. 1 am undcr the impression that
my lawyer settled that matter with you on certain
terms . . . dictated by yourself.

MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you
were rich.

LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pre-
tended to love me.

892

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

MRS. CHEVELEY [Shrugging her shoulders]. Poor
old Lord Mortlakc, who had only two topics of
conversation, his gout and his wife. I never could
quite make out which of the two he was talking
about. He used the most horrible language about
them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur. Why,
Lord Mortlake was never anything more to
me than an amusement. One of those utterly
tedious amusements one only finds at an English
country house on an English country Sunday.
I don’t think anyone at all morally responsible
for what he or she docs at an English country
house.

LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people
think that.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur.

LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you
have always been far too clever to know anything
about love.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I did lovc you. And you loved
me. You know you loved me; and love is a very
wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has
once loved a woman, he will do anything for her,
except continue to love her? [Puis her hand on
his,]

LORD GORING [Taking his hand away quietly].
Yes: except that.

MRS. CHEVELEY [After a pause], I am tired of
living abroad. I want to come back to London.

I want to have a charming house here. I want to
have a salon. If one could only teach the English
how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

393

here would be quite civilised. Besides, I have
arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you
last night at the Chilterns' I knew you were the
only person I had ever cared for, if I ever have
cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the mom-
of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert
Chiltern’s letter. That is my offer. I will give
it to you now, if you promise to marry me.

LORD GORING. NoW?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Smiling]. To-morrow.

LORD GORING. Arc you really serious?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Ycs, quite serious.

LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad
husband.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't mind bad husbands.
I have had two. They amused me immensely.

LORD GORING. You mean that you amused
yourself immensely, don't you?

MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my
married life?

LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like
a book.

MRS. CHEVELEY. What book?

LORD GORING [Rising]. The Book of Num-
bers.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it quite charm-
ing of you to be so rude to a woman in your own
house?

LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating
women, sex is a challenge, not a defence.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a
compliment. My dear Arthur, women are never

394

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

disarmed by compliments. Men always arc.
That is the difference between the two sexes.

LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by
anything, as far as I know them.

MRS. CHEVELEY [After a pause]. Then you are
going to allow your greatest friend, Robert Chil-
tem, to be ruined, rather than marry some one
who really has considerable attractions left? I
thought you would have risen to some great height
of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you should. And
the rest of your life you could spend in contemplat-
ing your own perfections.

LORD GORING. Oh I I do that as it is. And
self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by
law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom
one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the
bad.

MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoral-
ise Robert Chiltem! You seem to forget that I
know his real character.

LORD GORING. Wliat you know about him is
not his real character. It was an act of folly done
in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I
admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore
. . . not his true character.

MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for
each other!

LORD GORING. How you Women war against
each other!

MRS. CHEVELEY [Bitterly]. I only war against
one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern. I hate
her. I hate her now more than ever.

AOT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

395

LORD GORING. Because you have brought a
real tragedy into her life, I suppose.

MRS. CHEVELEY [With a sfieer]. Oh, there is
only one real tragedy in a woman's life. The fact
that her past is always her lover, and her future
invariably her husband.

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of
the kind of life to which you are alluding.

MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves
is seven and three-quarters never knows much
about anything. You know Gertrude has always
worn seven and three-quarters? That is one
of the reasons why there was nevc^r any moral
sympathy between us . . . Well, Arthur, I
suppose this romantic interview may be regarded
es at an end. You admit it was romantic, don't
you? For the privilege of being your wife I was
ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my
diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If
Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine scheme,
I expose him. Voila tout,

LORD GORING. You mustn't do that. It would
be vile, horrible, infamous.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Shrugging her shoulders]. Oh!
don't use big words. They mean so little. It is a
commercial transaction. That is all. There is
no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered
to sell Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he
won't pay me my pric^, he will have to pay the
world a greater price. There is no more to be
said. I must go. Good-bye. Won't you shake
hands?

396

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

LOBD GORING. With you? No. Your trans-
action with Robert Chiltem may pass as a loath-
some commercial transaction of a loathsome com-
mercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that
you who came here to-night to talk of love, you
whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom
the thing is a book closely sealed, went this after-
noon to the house of one of the most noble and
gentle women in the world to degrade her husband
in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to put
poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to
break her idol and, it may be, spoil her soul.
That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible.
For that there can be no forgiveness.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me.
Believe me, you are quite unjust to me. I didn't
go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of
doing anything of the kind when I entered. I
called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether
an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last
night, had been found at the Chilterns'. If you
don't believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She
will tell you it is true. The scene that occurred
happened after Lady Markby had left, and was
really forced on me by Gertrude's rudeness and
sneers. I called, oh! — a, little out of malice if
you like — but really to ask if a diamond brooch of
mine had been found. That was the origin of the
whole thing.

LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a
ruby?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know?

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

397

LORD GORING. Bccause it is found. In point of
fact, I found it myself, and stupidly forgot to tell
the butler anything about it as I was leaving.
[Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the
drawers.] It is in this drawer. No, that one.
This is the brooch, isn’t it? [Holds up the brooch.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Ycs. I am SO glad to get it
back. It was ... a present.

LORD GORING. Won’t you wear it?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in.
[lord GORING suddenly clasps it on her arm.] Why
do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it
could be worn as a bracelet.

LORD GORING. Really?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Holding out her handsome arm].
No; but it looks very well on me as a bracelet,
doesn’t it?

LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I
saw it last.

MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last?

LORD GORING [Calmly]. Oh, ten years ago, on
Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Starting]. What do you mean?

LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that orna-
ment from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I
gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a
wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace.
I recognised it last night. I determined to say
nothing about it till I had found the thief. I have
found the thief now, and I have heard her own
confession.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Tossing her head]. It is not true.

398 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why,
thief is written across your face at this moment.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair
from beginning to end. I will say that I have
never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in
my possession.

[MRS. CHEVELEY tries lo get the bracelet off her
arm, but fails, lord goring looks on amused.
Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no purpose. A
curse breaks from her.]

LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a
thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that one never knows how
wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can’t
get that bracelet off, unless you know where the
spring is. And I sec you don’t know where the
spring is. It is rather difficult to find.

MRS. CHEVEIJBY. You brutc! You coward!
[Sfte tries again to unclasp the bracelet, but fails.]

LORD GORING. Oh! doii’t usc big words. They
mean so little.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Again tears at the bracelet in a
paroxysm of rage, with inarticulate sounds. Then
slops, and looks at lord goring]. What arc you
going to do?

LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my ser-
vant. He is an admirable servant. Always comes
in the moment one rings for him. Wlien he comes
I will tell him to fetch the police.

MRS. CHEVELEY [Trembling]. The police? What
for?

LORD goring. To-morrow the Berkshires will
prosecute you. That is what the police are for.

ACT in]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

399

MRS. CHEVELEY [Is tiow in an agony of physical
terror. Her face is distorted. Her mouth awry. A
mask has fallen from her. She is, for the moment,
dreadful to look at]. Don’t do that. I will do
anything you want. Anything in the world you
want.

LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern’s
letter.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have
time to think,

LORD GORING. Givc me Robert Chiltem’s
letter.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I
will give it to you to-morrow.

LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give
it to me at once. [mrs. cheveley pulls the letter
out, and hands it to him. She is horribly pale.]
This is it?

MRS. cheveley [In a hoarse voice]. Yes.

LORD GORING [Takes the letter, examines it, sighs,
and burns it over the lamp]. For so well-dressed a
woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have moments of
admirable common sense. I congratulate you.

MRS. cheveley [Catches sight of lady chil-
tern’s letter, the cover of which is just showing from
under the blotting-book]. Please get me a glass of
water.

LORD GORING. Certainly. [Goes to the corner
of the room and pours out a glass of water. While
his back is turned MRS. cheveley steals lady
chiltern’s letter. When lord goring returiis
with the glass she refuses it with a gesture.]

400

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help
me on with my cloak?

LORD GORING. With pleasure. [Puls her cloak
on.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Tliaiil^s, I am never going to
try to harm Robert Chiltern again.

LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the
chance, Mrs. Chcvelcy.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Wcll, if cvcn I had the chance,
I wouldn’t. On the contrary, I am going to
render him a great service.

LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is
a reformation.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I Can’t bear so upright a
gentleman, so honourable an English gentleman,
being so shamefully deceived, and so

LORD GORING. Well?

MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Ger-
trude Chiltem’s dying speech and confession has
strayed into my pocket.

LORD GORING. What do you mean?

MRS. CHEVELEY [With a bitter note of triumph in
her voice]. I mean tliat I am going to send Robert
Chiltern the love letter his wife wrote to you to-
night.

LORD GORING. Lovc letter?

MRS. CHEVELEY [Laughing]. ‘I want you. I
trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’

[lord goring rushes to the bureau and takes up
the envelope, finds it empty, and turns round.]

lord goring. Y ou wretched woman, must you
always be thieving? Give me back that letter.

ACT III]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

401

I’ll take it from you by force. You shall not
leave my room till I have got it.

[He rushes towards her, but MRS. cheveloey at
once puts her hand on the electric bell that is on the
table. The bell sounds with shrill reverberations,
and PHIPPS enters,]

MRS. CHEVELEY [After a pause]. Lord Goring
merely rang that you should show me out. Good-
night, Lord Goring!

[Goes out, followed by phipps. Her face is il-
lumined with evil triumph. There is joy in her
eyes. Youth seems to have come back to her. Her
last glance is like a swift arrow, lord goring
bites his lip, and lights a cigarette,]

Act-drop

ACT IV

Scene — Same as Act II.

[lord goring is standing by the fireplace with his
hands in his pockets. He is looking rather bored.]

LORD GORING [Pulls out Ms watch, inspects it, and
rings the bell]. It is a great nuisance. I can’t find
anyone in this house to talk to. And I am full of
interesting information. I feel like the latest
edition of something or other.

[Enter Servant.]

JAMES. Sir Robert is still at the Foreign Ofiice,
my lord.

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltcm not down yet?

JAMES. Her ladyship has not yet left her room.
Miss Chiltem has just come in from riding.

LORD GORING [To himself]. Ah! that is some-
thing.

JAMES. Lord Caversham has been waiting
some time in the library for Sir Robert. I told
him your lordship was here.

LORD GORING. Thank you. Would you kindlj^
tell him I’ve gone?

JAMES [Bowing]. I shall do so, my lord.

[Exit Servant.]

LORD GORING. Really, I don’t want to meet my
father three days running. It is a great deal too
much excitement for any son. I hope to goodness
he won’t come up. Fathers should be neither

<(02

ACT it]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

403

seen nor heard. That is the only proper basis for
family life. Mothers are different. Mothers are
darlings. [Throws himself down into a chair,
picks up a paper and begins to read it,]

[Enter lord caversham.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, what are you do-
ing here? WawSliiig your time as usual, I suppose?

LORD GORING [Throws doivu paper and rises].
My dear fatlier, when one pays a visit it is for the
purpose of wasting other people’s time, not one’s
own.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Ilave you been thinking
over what 1 spoke to you about last night?

LORD GORING. I have been thinking about
nothing else.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Engaged to be married yet?

ix)RD GORING [Genially], Not yet; but I hope
to be before lunch-time.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Cavsticallij]. You can have
till dinner-time if it would be of any convenience
to you.

LORD GORING. Thanks awfully, but I think Fd
sooner be engaged before lunch.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Humph! Never know when
you are serious or not.

LORD GORING. Neither do I, fatlier.

[A pause.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. I suppose you have read
‘The Times’ this morning?

LORD GORING [Airily], ‘The Times’? Cer-
tainly not. I only read ‘The Morning Post.’
All that one should know about modem life is

404

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act nr

where the Duchesses are; anything else is quite
demoralising.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Do you mean to say you
have not read ‘The Times’ ’ leading article on
Robert Chiltem’s career?

LORD GORING. Great heavens! No. What does
it say?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Wliat should it Say, sir?
Everything complimentary, of course. Chiltem’s
speech last night on this Argentine Canal Scheme
was one of the finest pieces of oratory ever deliv-
ered in the House since Canning.

LORD GORING. Ah! Ncver heard of Canning.
Never wanted to. And did . . . did Chiltem
uphold the scheme?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Uphold it, sir? How little
you know him! Why, he denounced it roundly,
and the whole system of modem political finance.
This speech is the turning-point in his career, as
‘The Times’ points out. You should read this
article, sir. [Opens ‘The Times.’] ‘Sir Robert
Chiltem . . . most rising of all our young states-
men . . . Brilliant orator . . . Unblemished
career . . . Well-known integrity of character
. . . Represents what is best in English public
life . . . Noble contrast to the lax morality so
common among foreign politicians.’ They will
never say that of you, sir.

LORD GORING. I sinccrely hope not, father.
However, I am delighted at what you tell me about
Robert, thoroughly delighted. It shows he has
got pluck.

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

405

LORD CAVEESHAM. He has got more than pluck,
sir, he has got genius.

LORD GORING. Ah! I prefer pluck. It is not
so common, nowadays, as genius is.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would go into
Parliament.

LORD GORING. My dear father, only people
who look dull ever get into the House of Com-
mons, and only people who are dull ever succeed
there.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you try to do
something useful in life?

LORD GORING. I am far too young.

LORD CAVERSHAM [TestUy], I hatc this affec-
tation of youth, sir. It is a great deal too preva-
lent nowadays.

LORD GORING. Youth isn’t an affectation. Youth
is an art.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Why don’t you propose to
that pretty Miss Chiltem?

LORD GORING. I am of a very nervous disposi-
tion, especially in the morning.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I don’t suppose there is the
smallest chance of her accepting you.

LORD GORING. I don’t know how the betting
stands to-day.

LORD CAVERSHAM. If she did accept you she
would be the prettiest fool in England.

LORD GORING. That is just what I should like
to marry. A thoroughly sensible wife would
reduce me to a condition of absolute idiocy in less
than six months.

406

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act nr

LORD CAVERSHAM. You don't dcscrve her, sir.

LORD GORING. My dear father, if we men mar-
ried the women we deserved, we should have a
very bad time of it.

[Enter mabel chiltern.]

MABEL chiltern. Oh! How do you do,

Lord Caversham? I hope Lady Caversham is
quite well?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Caversham is as usual,
as usual.

LORD GORING. Good moming, Miss Mabel!

MABEL CHILTERN [Taking no notice at all of
LORD GORING, and addressing herself exclusively to
LORD caversham]. And Lady Caversham's bon-
nets ... are they at all better?

LORD caversham. They have had a serious
relapse, I am sorry to say.

LORD GORING. Good moHiing, Miss Mabel!

MABEL CHILTERN [To LORD CAVERSHAM]. I
hope an operation will not be necessary.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Smiling at her pertness]. If
it is we shall have to give Lady Caversham a nar-
cotic. Otherwise she would never consent to have
a feather touched.

LORD GORING [With increased emphasis]. Good
moming, Miss Mabel !

MABEL CHILTERN [Turning round tvilh feigned
surprise]. Oh, are you here? Of course you
understand that after your breaking your ap-
pointment I am never going to speak to you
again.

LORD GORING. Oh, please don't say such a

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

407

thing. You are the one person in London I
really like to have to listen to me.

MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I never believe a
single word that either you or I say to each other.

LORD CAVERSHAM. You are quite right, my
dear, quite right . . . as far as he is concerned,
I mean.

MABEL CHILTERN. Do you think you could
possibly make your son behave a little better
occasionally? Just as a change.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I regret to say. Miss Chil-
tern, that I have no influence at all over my son.
I wish I had. If I had I know what I would make
him do.

MABEL CHILTERN. I am afraid that he has one
of those terribly weak natures that are not sus-
ceptible to influence.

LORD CAVERSHAM. He is veiy heartless, very
heartless.

LORD GORING. It secms to me that I am a little
in the way here.

MABEL CHILTERN. It is vciy good for you to be
in the way, and to know what people s^iy of you
behind your back.

LORD GORING. I don’t at all like knowing what
people say of me behind my back. It makes me
far too conceited.

LORD CAVERSHAM. After that, my dear, I
really must bid you good morning.

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I hope you are not
going to leave me all alone with Lord Goring?
Especially at such an early hour in the day.

408

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

LORD CAVEESHAM. I am afraid I can’t take
him with me to Downing Street. It is not
the Prime Minister’s day for seeing the un-
employed.

[Shakes hands with mabel chiltebn, takes up his
hat and stick, and goes out, with a parting glare of
indignation at lord goring.]

MABEL CHILTEBN [Takes up roses and begins to
arrange them in a bowl on the table]. People who
don’t keep their appointments in the Park are
horrid.

LORD GORING. Detestable.

MABEL CHiLTERN. I am glad you admit it.
But I wish you wouldn’t look so pleased about it.

LORD GORING. I can’t help it. I always look
pleased when I am with you.

MABEL CHILTERN [Sadly]. Then I suppose it is
my duty to remain with you?

LORD GORING. Of course it is.

MABEL CHILTERN. Well, my duty is a thing I
never do, on principle. It always depresses me.
So I am afraid I must leave you.

LORD GORING. Please don’t. Miss Mabel. I
have something very particular to say to you.

MABEL CHILTERN [Rapturously]. Oh! is it a
proposal?

LORD GORING [Somewhat taken aback]. Well,
yes, it is— I am boimd to say it is.

MABEL CHILTERN [With o sigh of pleasure]. I
am so glad. That makes the second to-day.

LORD GORING [Indignantly]. The second to-
day? What conceited ass has been impertinent

ACT nr]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

409

enough to dare to propose to you before I had
proposed to you?

MABEL CHiLTERN. Tommy Trafford, of course.
It is one of Tommy’s days for proposing. He al-
ways proposes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, dur-
ing the season.

LORD GORING. You didn’t accept him, I hope?

MABEL CHILTERN. I make it a rule never to
accept Tommy. That is why he goes on propos-
ing. Of course, as you didn’t turn up this morn-
ing, I very nearly said yes. It would have been
an excellent lesson both for him and for you if I
had. It would have taught you both better
manners.

LORD GORING. Oh! bother Tommy Trafford.
Tommy is a silly little ass. I love you.

MABEL CHILTERN. I know. And I think you
might have mentioned it before. I am sure I
have given you heaps of opportunities.

LORD GORING. Mabel, do be serious. Please
be serious.

MABEL CHILTERN. Ah! that is the sort of thing
a man always says to a girl before he has been
married to her. He never says it afterwards.

LORD GORING [Taking hold of her hand], Mabel,
I have told you that I love you. Can’t you love
me a little in return?

MABEL CHILTERN. You silly Arthur! If you
knew anything about . . . anything, which you
don’t, you would know that I adore you. Every-
one in London knows it except you. It is a public
scandal the way I adore you. I have been going

410

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

about for the last six months telling the whole of
society that I adore you. I wonder you consent
to have anything to say to me. I have no charac-
ter left at all. At least, I feel so happy that I am
quite sure I have no character left at all.

LOED GOEiNG [Calches her in his arms and kisses
her. Then there is a pause of bliss]. Dear! Do
you know I was awfully afraid of being refused !

MABEL CHILTEEN [Looking up at him]. But
you never have been refused yet by anybody,
have you, Arthur? I can’t imagine anyone refus-
ing you.

LOED GOEING [After kissing her again]. Of
course I’m not nearly good enough for you,
Mabel.

MABEL CHILTEEN [Nestling close to him]. I aiq
so glad, darling. I was afraid you were.

LOED GOEING [Afler some hesitation]. And I’m
. . . I’m a little over thirty.

MABEL CHILTEEN. Dear, you look weeks young-
er than that.

LOED GOEING [Enthusiastically]. How sweet of
you to say sol. . . And it is only fair to tell you
frankly that I am fearfully extravagant.

MABEL CHILTEEN. But SO am I, Arthur. So
we’re sure to agree. And now I must go and see
Gertrude.

LOED GOEING. Must you really? [Kisses her.]

MABEL CHILTEEN. YeS.

LORO GOEING. Then do tell her I want to talk
to her particularly. I have been waiting here all
the morning to see either her or Robert.

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

411

MABEL CHiLTEEN. Do you mean to say you
didn’t come here expressly to propose to me?

LORD COKING [Triumphantly]. No; that was a
flash of genius.

MABEL CHILTEEN. YoUr first.

LORD GORING [With determination]. My last.

MABEL CHILTEEN. I am delighted to hear it.
Now don’t stir. I’ll be back in five minutes. And
don’t fall into any tem])tations while I am away.

LORD GORING. Dear Mabel, while you are
away, there are none. It makes me horribly de-
pendent on you.

[Enter lady chiltern.]

LADY CHILTERN. Good moming, dear. How
pretty you are looking!

MABEL CHILTERN. How pale you 8X6 looking,
Gertrude! It is most becoming!

LADY CHILTERN. Good moming. Lord Goring!

LORD GORING [Bomng]. Good moming, Lady
Chiltern!

MABEL CHILTERN [Aside to LORD GORING]. I
shall be in the conservatory, imder the second
palm tree on the left.

LORD GORING. Second on the left?

MABEL CHILTERN [With c look of mock surprise].
Yes; the usual palm tree.

[Blows a kiss to him, unobserved by lady chil-
tern, and goes out.]

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, I have a certain
amount of very good news to tell you. Mrs.
Cheveley gave me up Robert’s letter last night,
and I burned it. Robert is safe.

412

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

LADY CHILTEBN [Sinking on the sofa]. Safe ! Oh !
£ am so glad of that. What a good friend you are
to him — ^to us!

LOED GORING. There is only one person now
that could be said to be in any danger.

LADY CHILTERN. Who is that?

LORD GORING [Sitting down beside her]. Yourself.

LADY CHILTERN. I ! In danger? What do you
mean?

LORD GORING. Danger is too great a word. It
is a word I should not have used. But I admit I
have something to tell you that may distress you,
that terribly distresses me. Yesterday evening
you wrote me a very beautiful, womanly letter,
asking me for my help. You wrote to me as one
of your oldest friends, one of your husband’s oldest
friends. Mrs. Cheveley stole that letter from my
rooms.

LADY CHILTERN. Well, what use is it to her?
Why should she not have it?

LORD GORING [Rising]. Lady Chiltem, I will
be quite frank with you. Mrs. Cheveley puts a
certain construction on that letter and proposes to
send it to your husband.

LADY CHILTERN. But what construction could
she put on it? . . . Oh! not that! not that! If
I in — in trouble, and wanting your help, trusting
you, propose to come to you . . . that you may
advise me . . . assist me . . .Oh! are there
women so horrible as that . . . ? And she pro-
poses to send it to my husband? Tell me what
happened. Tell me all that happened.

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

413

LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley was concealed in
a room adjoining my library, without my knowl-
edge. I thought that the person who was wait-
ing in that room to see me was yourself. Robert
came in unexpectedly. A chair or something fell
in the room. He forced his way in, and he dis-
covered her. We had a terrible scene. I still
thought it was you. He left me in anger. At the
end of everything Mrs. Cheveley got possession
of your letter — she stole it, when or how, I don’t
know.

LADY CHiLTERN. At what houT did this happen?

LORD GORING. At half-past ten. And now I
propose that we tell Robert the whole thing at
once.

LADY CHILTERN [Looking at him ivith amazement
that is almost terror]. You want me to tell Robert
that the woman you expected was not Mrs.
Cheveley, but myself? That it was 1 whom you
thought was concealed in a room in your house, at
half-past ten o’clock at night? You want me to
tell him that?

LORD GORING. I think it is better that he should
know the exact truth.

LADY CHILTERN [Rising], Oh, I couldn’t, I
couldn’t!

LORD GORING. May I do it?

LADY CHILTERN. No.

LORD GORING [Gravely], You are wrong. Lady
Chiltem.

LADY CHILTERN. No. The letter must be inter-
cepted. That is all. But how can I do it?

414

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

Letters arrive for him every moment of the day.
His secretaries open them and hand them to him.
I dare not ask the servants to bring me his letters.
It would be impossible. Oh! why don’t you tell
me what to do?

LORD GORING. Pray be cahu, Lady Chiltcrn,
and answer the questions I am going to put to you.
You said his secretaric.s open his letters.

LADY CHILTERN. YcS.

LORD GORING. Who is with liim to-day? Mr.
Trafford, isn’t it?

LADY CHILTERN. No. Mr. Montford, I think.

LORD GORING. You can trust him?

LADY CHILTERN [ With a gesture of despair]. Oh !
how do I know?

LORD GORING. He would do what you asked
him, wouldn’t he?

LADY CHILTERN. I think SO.

LORD GORING. Your letter was on pink paper.
He could recognise it without reading it, couldn’t
he? By the colour?

LADY CHILTERN. I SUppOSe SO.

LORD GORING. Is hc in the house now?

LADY CHILTERN. YcS.

LORD GORING. Then I will go and see him my-
self, and tell him that a certain letter, written on
pink paper, is to be forwarded to Robert to-day,
and that at all costs it must not reach him. [Goes
to the door, and opens it.] Oh! Robert is coming
upstairs with the letter in his hand. It has
reached him already.

LADY CHILTERN \With a cry of pain]. Oh! you

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

415

have saved his life; what have you done with
mine!

[Enter sra eobebt chilteen. He has the letter
in his hand, and is reading it. He comes towards
his ivife, not noticing loed gobing’s presence.]

SIB EOBEET CHILTEEN. ‘ I want you. I trust
you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’ Oh, my
love? Is this true? Do you indeed trust me,
and want me? If so, it was for me to come to you,
not for you to write of coming to me. This letter
of yours, Gertrude, makes me feel that nothing
that the world may do can hurt me now. You
want me, Gertrude?

[loed gobing, unseen by sib eobebt chilteen,
makes an imploring sign to lady chilteen to
accept the situation and siB bobeet’s error.]

LADY CHILTEEN. YeS.

SIB EOBEET CHILTEEN. You trust me, Ger-
trude?

LADY CHILTEEN. YeS.

siE EOBEET CHILTEEN. Ah! why did you not
add you loved me?

LADY CHILTEEN [Taking his hand]. Because I
loved you.

[loed goeing passes into the conservatory.]

SIE EOBEET CHILTEEN [Kisses her]. Gertrude,
you don’t know what I feel. When Montford
passed me your letter across the table — he had
opened it by mistake, I suppose, without looking
at the handwriting on the envelope — and I read
it — oh ! I did not care what disgrace or punishment
'was in store for me, I only thought you loved me stiU.

416

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

LADY CHiLTEEN. There is no disgrace in store
for you, nor any public shame. Mrs. Cheveley
has handed over to Lord Goring the document that
was in her possession, and he has destroyed it.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Are you sure of this,
Gertrude?

LADY CHILTERN. Yes; Lord Goring has just
told me.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Then I am safe! Oh!
what a wonderful thing to be safe ! For two days
I have been in terror. I am safe now. How did
Arthur destroy my letter? Tell me.

LADY CHILTERN. He bumed it.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I wish I had Seen that
one sin of my youth burning to ashes. How many
men there are in modem life who would like to see
their past burning to white ashes before them ! Is
Arthur still here?

LADY CHILTERN. Yes; he is in the conserv-
atory.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am SO glad now I made
that speech last night in the House, so glad. I
made it thinking that public disgrace might be the
result. But it has not been so.

LADY CHILTERN. Public honour has been the
result.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I think SO. I fear so,
almost. For although I am safe from detection,
although every proof against me is destroyed, I
suppose, Gertrade ... I suppose I should
retire from public life? [He looks anxiously ai his
m}e\

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

417

LADY CHILTERN [Eagerly]. Oh yes, Robert, you
should do that. It is your duty to do that.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. It is much to Surrender.
LADY CHILTERN. No; it will be much to
gain.

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN walks up and down the
room with a troubled expression. Then comes over
to his wife, and puts his hand on her shoulder.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. And you would be
happy living somewhere alone with me, abroad
perhaps, or in the country away from London,
away from public life? You would have no re-
grets?

LADY CHILTERN. Oh! iione, Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Sadly]. And your ambi-
tion for me? You used to be ambitious for me.

LADY CHILTERN. Oh, my ambition! I have
none now, but that we two may love each other.
It was your ambition that led you astray. Let us
not talk about ambition.

[lord goring returns from the conservatory, look-
ing very pleased with himself, and with an entirely
new buttonhole that some one has made for him.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Going towards him]. Ar-
thur, I have to thank you for what you have done
for me. I don’t know how I can repay you.
[Shakes hands with him.]

LORD GORING. My dear fellow. I’ll tell you at
once. At the present moment, under the usual
palm tree ... I mean in the conservatory . . .
[Enter mason.]

MASON. Lord Caversham.

418

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act nr

LORD GORING. That admirable father of mine
really makes a habit of turning up at the wrong
moment. It is very heartless of him, very heart-
less indeed.

[Enter lord caversham. mason goes out.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Good morning, Lady Chil-
tem ! Warmest congratulations to you, Chiltem,
on your brilliant speech last night. I have just
left the Prime Minister, and you are to have the
vacant seat in the Cabinet.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [With a look of joy and
triumph]. A seat in the Cabinet?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Y cs ; here is the Prime Minis-
ter’s letter. [Hands letter.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Takes letter and reads it].
A seat in the Cabinet!

LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, and you well
deserve it too. You have got what we want so
much in political life nowadays — high character,
high moral tone, high principles. [To lord gor-
ing.] Everything that you have not got, sir,
and never will have.

LORD GORING. I don’t like principles, father.

I prefer prejudices.

[sir ROBERT CHILTERN isonthe brink of accepting
the Prime Minister’s offer, when he sees his wife look-
ing at him mth her clear, candid eyes. He then
realises that it is impossible.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I cannot accept this
offer, Lord Caversham. I have made up my
mind to decline it.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Decline it, sir!

ACT rvj

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

419

SIB ROBERT CHii/TERN. My intention is to
retire at once from public life.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Angrily]. Decline a seat in
the Cabinet, and retire from public life? Never
heard such damned nonsense in the whole course
of my existence. I beg your pardon, Lady Chil-
tem. Chiltem, I beg your pardon. [To lord
GORING.] Don’t grin like that, sir.

LORD GORING. No, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Lady Chiltem, you are a
sensible woman, the most sensible woman in
London, the most sensible woman I know. Will
you kindly prevent your husband from making
such a . . from talking such . . .Will you
kindly do that. Lady Chiltem?

LADY CHiLTEBN. I think my husband is right in
his determination, Lord Caversham. I approve of it.

LORD CAVERSHAM. You approve of it? Good
Heavens!

LADY CHiLTERN [Taking her husband’s hand]. I
admire him for it. I admire him inamensely for it.
I have never admired him so much before. He is
finer than even I thought him. [To sib Robert
CHILTERN.] You will go and write your letter
to the Prime Minister now, won’t you? Don’t
hesitate about it, Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [ WUh a touch of bitterness].
I suppose I had better write it at once. Such
offers are not repeated. I will ask you to excuse
me for a moment. Lord Caversham.

LADY CHILTERN. I may come with you, Robert,
may I not?

420

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act nr

siE ROBEET CHiLTERN. Ycs, Gertrude.

[lady CHILTERN goes out with him.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. What is the matter with
this family? Something wrong here, eh? [Tap-
ping his forehead.] Idiocy? Hereditary, I sup-
pose. Both of them, too. Wife as well as hus-
band. Very sad. Very sad indeed! And they
are not an old family. Can’t understand it.

LORD GORING. It is not idiocy, father, I assure
you.

LORD CAVERSHAM. What is it then, sir?

LORD GORING [After some hesitation]. Well, it is
what is called nowadays a high moral tone,
father. That is all.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Hate thcse new-fangled
names. Same thing as we used to call idiocy fifty
years ago. Shan’t stay in this house any longer.

LORD GORING [Taking his arm]. Oh! just go in
here for a moment, father. Second palm tree to
the left, the usual palm tree.

LORD CAVERSHAM. What, sir?

LORD GORING. I beg your pardon, father, I
forgot. The conservatory, father, the conserva-
tory — there is some one there I want you to talk
to.

LORD CAVERSHAM. What about, sir?

LORD GORING. About me, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM [Grimly]. Not a subject on
which much eloquence is possible.

LORD GORING. No, father; but the lady is like
me. She doesn’t care much for eloquence in
others. She thinks it a little loud.

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

421

[lobd caversham goes into the conservatory,
LADY CHiLTERN enters,]

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern, why are you
playing Mrs. Cheveley's cards?

LADY CHILTERN [Startled], I don't understand
you.

LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt
to ruin your husband. Either to drive him from
public life, or to make him adopt a dishonourable
position. From the latter tragedy you saved him.
The former you are now thrusting on him. Why
should you do him the wrong Mrs. Cheveley tried
to do and failed?

LADY CHILTERN. Lord Goring !

LORD GORING [Pulling himself together for a great
effort, and showing the philosophy that underlies the
dandy] . Lady Chiltern, allow me. You wrote me
a letter last night in which you said you trusted me
and wanted my help. Now is the moment when
you really want my help, now is the time when you
have got to trust me, to trust in my counsel and
judgment. You love Robert. Do you want to
kill his love for you? What sort of existence will
he have if you rob him of the fruits of his ambition,
if you take him from the splendour of a great
political career, if you close the doors of public
life against him, if you condemn him to sterile
failure, he who was made for triumph and success?
Women are not meant to judge us, but to forgive
us when we need forgiveness. Pardon, not pun-
ishment, is their mission. Why should you
scourge him with rods for a sin done in his youth,

m

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

before he knew you, before he knew himself? A
man’s life is of more value than a woman’s. It
has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions.
A woman’s life revolves in curves of emotions. It
is upon lines of intellect that a man’s life pro-
gresses. Don’t make any terrible mistake, I.a,dy
Chiltem. A woman who can keep a man’s love,
and love him in return, has done all the world
wants of women, or should want of them.

LADY CHILTERN [Troubled and hesitaling]. But
it is my husband himself who wishes to retire from
public life. He feels it is his duty. It was he
who first said so.

LORD GORING. Rather than lose your love,
Robert would do anything, wreck his whole
career, as he is on the brink of doing now. He is
making for you a terrible sacrifice. Take my
advice, I^dy Chiltem, and do not accept a sacri-
fice so great. If you do, you will live to repent it
bitterly. We men and women are not made to
accept such sacrifices from each other. We are
not worthy of them. Besides, Robert has been
punished enough.

LADY CHILTERN. Wc have both been punished.
I set him up too high.

LORD GORING [With deep feeling in his voice].
Do not for that reason set him down now too low.
If he has fallen from his altar, do not thrust him
into the mire. Failure to Robert would be the
very mire of shame. Power is his passion. He
would lose everything, even his power to fed
love. Your husband’s life is at this moment in

4cr nr]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

423

your hands, your husband’s love is in your hands.
Don’t mar both for him.

[Enter sm eobert chiltebn.]

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. Gertrude, here is the
draft of my letter. Shall I read it to you?

LADY CHILTEBN. Let me see it.

[sir ROBERT hands her the letter. She reads
it, and then, with a gesture of passion, tears
it up.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What are you doing?

LADY CHILTERN. A man’s life is of more value
than a woman’s. It has larger issues, wider scope,
greater ambitions. Our lives revolve in curves of
emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that a man’s
life progresses. I have just learnt this, and much
else with it, from Lord Goring. And I will not
spoil your life for you, nor see you spoil it as a
sacrifice to me, a useless sacrifice !

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude! Gertrude!

LADY CHILTERN. You Can forgct. Men easily
forget. And I forgive. That is how women help
the world. I see that now.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Deeply Overcome by emo-
tion, embraces her]. My wife! my wife! [To
LORD GORING.] Arthur, it seems that I am always
to be in your debt.

LORD GORING. Oh dear no, Robert. Your debt
is to Lady Chiltern, not to me!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I owe you much. And
now tell me what you were going to ask me just
now as Lord Caversham came in.

LORD GORING. Robert, you are your sister’s

424

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

guardian, and I want your consent to my marriage
with her. That is all.

LADY CHILTERN. Oh, I am SO glad! I am so
glad! [S/jaA:es Aands M«7ft LORD GORING.]

LORD GORING. Thank you, Lady Chiltem.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [With a troubled look].
My sister to be your wife?

LORD GORING. YeS.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Speaking mlh great firm-
ness], Arthur, I am very sorry, but the thing is
quite out of the question. I have to think of
Mabel’s future happiness. And I don’t think her
happiness would be safe in your hands. And I
cannot have her sacrificed !

LORD GORING. Sacrificed!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Yes, Utterly sacrificed.
Loveless marriages are horrible. But there is
one thing worse than an absolutely loveless mar-
riage. A marriage in which there is love, but on
one side only; faith, but on one side only; devotion,
but on one side only, and in which of the two
hearts one is sure to be broken.

LORD GORING. But I love Mabel. No other
woman has any place in my life.

LADY CHILTERN. Robert, if they love each
other, why should they not be married?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur cannot bring
Mabel the love that she deserves.

LORD GORING. What reason have you for say-
ing that?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [After o pouscj. Do you
really require me to tell you?

ACT rv]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

425

LORD GORING. Certainly I do.

SIR ROBERT CHiLTERN. As you choosc. When
I called on you yesterday evening I found Mrs.
Cheveley concealed in your rooms. It was be-
tween ten and eleven o’clock at night. I do not
wish to say anything more. Your relations with
Mrs. Cheveley have, as I said to you last night,
nothing whatsoever to do with me. I know you
were engaged to be married to her once. The
fascination she exercised over you then seems to
have returned. You spoke to me last night of
her as a woman pure and stainless, a woman whom
you respected and honoured. That may be so.
But I cannot give my sister’s life into your hands.
It would be wrong of me. It would be unjust,
infamously unjust to her.

LORD GORING. I have nothing more to say.

LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it was not Mrs.
Cheveley whom Lord Goring expected last night.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Not Mrs. Cheveley!
Who was it then?

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltcrn!

LADY CHILTERN. It was your own wife. Robert,
yesterday afternoon Lord Goring told me that if
ever I was in trouble I could come to him for help,
as he was our oldest and best friend. Later on,
after that terrible scene in this room, I wrote to
him telling him that I trusted him, that I had
need of him, that I was coming to him for help
and advice, [sir robert chiltern lakes the letter
out of his pocket.] Yes, that letter. I didn’t go
to Lord Goring’s, after all. I felt that it is from

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

ourselves alone that help can come. Pride made
me think that. Mrs. Cheveley went. She stole
my letter and sent it anonymously to you this
morning, that you should think . . .Oh! Rob-
ert, i cannot tell you what she wished you to
think. . . .

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What! Had 1 fallen so
low in your eyes that you thought that even for
a moment I could have doubted your goodness?
Gertrude, Gertrude, you are to me the white
jmage of all good things, and sin can never touch
you. Arthur, you can go to Mabel, and you have
my best wishes! Oh! stop a moment. There is
no name at the beginning of this letter. The bril-
liant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed
that. There should be a name.

LADY CHILTERN. Let me write yours. It is
you I trust and need. You and none else.

LORD GORING. Well, really. Lady Chiltem, I
think I should have back my own letter.

LADY CHILTERN [Smiling]. No; you shall have
Mabel. [Takes the letter and mites her husband's
name on it]

LORD GORING. Well, I hope she hasn’t changed
her mind. It’s nearly twenty minutes since I saw
her last.

[Enter mabel chiltern and lord caversham.] .

MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, I think your
father’s conversation much more improving than
yours. I am only going to talk to Lord Caver-
sham in the future, and always under the usual
palm tree.

ACT IV]

AN IDEAL HUSBAND

m

LOHD GOEING. Darling! [Kisses her.]

LOED CAVEESHAM [Considerably aback]. What
does this mean, sir? You don’t mean to say that
this charming, clever young lady has been so
foolish as to accept you?

LORD GORING. Certainly, father! And Chil-
tem’s been wise enough to accept a seat in the
Cabinet.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I am Very glad to hear that,
Chiltom ... I congratulate you, sir. If the
country doesn’t go to the dogs or the Radicals,
we shall have you Prime Minister, some day.

[Enter mason.]

MASON. Luncheon is on the table, my Lady!

[mason goes out.]

LADY CHILTERN. You’ll Stop tO lunchCOn,
Lord Cavcrsham, won’t you?

LORD CAVERSHAM. With plcasurc, and I’ll drive
you down to Downing Street afterwards, Chiltem.
You have a gr<5at future before you, a great future.
Wish I could say the same for you, sir. [To loed
goring.] But your career will have to be entirely
domestic.

LORD goring. Yes, father, I prefer it domestic.

LORD CAVERSHAM. And if you don’t make this
young lady an ideal husband, 1 ’ll cut you off with
a shilling.

MABEL CHILTERN. All ideal husband! Oh, I
don’t think 1 should like that. It sounds like
something in the next world.

LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you want him to
be then, dear?

428

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

MABEL CHiLTEKN. He can be what he chooses.
All I want is to be . . . to be . . . oh ! a real
wife to him.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Upoii my word, there is a
good deal of common sense in that, Lady Chiltem.

[They all go out except sir Robert chiltern.
He sinks into a chair, wrapt in thougM. After a
little time lady chiltern returns to look for him.]

LADY CHILTERN [Leaning over the back of the
chair]. Aren’t you coming in, Robert?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN [Takuig her hand]. Ger-
trude, is it love you feel for me, or is it pity merely?

LADY CHILTERN [Kisses him]. It is love, Robert.
Love, and only love. For both of us a new life
is beginning.

Curtain

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

Persons in the Prologue

PETER SABOUROFP (an Innkeeper)

VERA SABOUROFF (hie Daughter)

MICHAEL (a Peaeant)

COLONEL KOTEMKIN

Scene, Russia. Time — 1795

Persons in the Play

IVAN THE CZAR.

PRINCE PAUL MARALOFFSKI (Prime Minister of Russia).
PRINCE PETROVITCH.

COUNT ROUVALOFF.

MARQUIS DE POIVRARD.

BARON RAFF.

GENERAL KOTEMKIN.

A PAGE.

Nihilists

PETER TCHERNAVITCH, President of the Nihilists.
MICHAEL.

ALEXIS IVANACIEVITCH, known as a Student of Medicine.
PROFESSOR MARFA.

VERA SABOUROFF.

Soldiers, Conspirators, etc.

Scene, Moscow. Time — 1800

431

PROLOGUE

Scene — A Russian Inn. Large door opening on
snowy landscape at back of stage.

PETEE SABOUKOFF and MICHAEL.

PETER [Warming his hands at a stove]. Has
Vera not come back yet, Michael?

MICH. No, Father Peter, not yet; ’tis a good
three miles to the post-office, and she has to milk
the cows besides, and that dun one is a rare
plaguey creature for a wench to handle.

PETER. Why didn’t you go with her, you
young fool? she’ll never love you unless you are
always at her heels; women like to be bothered.

MICH. She says I bother her too much already.
Father Peter, and I fear she’ll never love me after
all.

PETER. Tut, tut, boy, why shouldn’t she?
You’re young and wouldn’t be ill-favoured either,
had God or thy mother given thee another face.
Aren’t you one of Prince Maraloffski’s game-
keepers; and haven't you got a good grass farm,
and the best cow in the village? What more does
a girl want?

MICH. But Vera, Father Peter

PETER. Vera, my lad, has got too many ideas;
I don’t think much of ideas myself; Fve got on
well enough in life without ’em; why shouldn’t

433

434

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

my children? There’s Dmitri! could have stayed
here and kept the inn; many a young lad would
have jumped at the offer in these hard times; but
he, scatter-brained featherhead of a boy, must
needs go off to Moscow to study the law ! What
does he want knowing about the law ! let a man do
his duty, say I, and no one will trouble him.

MICH. Ay! but, Father Peter, they say a good
lawyer can break the law as often as he likes, and
no one can say him nay.

PETEE. That is about all they are good for;
and there he stays, and has not written a line to
us for four months now — a good son that, eh?

MICH. Come, come. Father Peter, Dmitri’s
letters must have gone astray — perhaps the new
postman can’t read; he looks stupid enough, and
Dmitri, why, he was the best fellow in the village.
Do you remember how he shot the bear at the
bam in the great winter?

PETER. Ay, it was a good shot; I never did
a better myself.

MICH. And as for dancing, he tired out three
fiddlers Christmas come two years.

PETER. Ay, ay, he was a merry lad. It is the
girl that has the seriousness — she goes about as
solemn as a priest for days at a time.

MICH. Vera is always thinking of others.

PETER. There is her mistake, boy. Let God
and our little Father look to the world. It is
none of my work to mend my neighbour’s thatch.
Why, last winter old Michael was frozen to death
in his sleigh in the snowstorm, and his wife and

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

435

children starved afterwards when the hard times
came; but what business was it of mine? I didn’t
make the world. Let God and the Czar look to
it. And then the blight came, and the black
plague with it, and the priests couldn’t bury the
people fast enough, and they lay dead on the
roads — men and women both. But what business
was it of mine? 1 didn’t make the world. Let
God and the Czar look to it. Or two autumns
ago, when the river overflowed on a sudden, and
the children’s scliool was carried away and
drowned every girl and boy in it. I didn’t make
the world — let God and the Czar look to it.

MICH. But, Father Peter —

PETER. No, no, boy; no man could live if he
took his neighbour’s pack on his shoulders. [Enter
VERA m peasant’s dress,] Well, my girl, you’ve
been long enough away — where is the letter?

VERA. There is none, to-day, Father.

PETER. I knew it.

VERA. But there will be one to-morrow, Father.

PETER. Curse him, for an ungrateful son.

VERA. Oh, Father, don’t say that; he must be
sick.

PETER. Ay! sick of profligacy, perhaps.

VERA. How dare you say that of him. Father?
You know that is not true.

PETER. Wliere docs the money go, then?
Michael, listen. I gave Dmitri half his mother’s
fortune to bring with him to pay the lawyer folk
of Moscow. He has only written three times,
and every time for more money. He got it, not

436

fHE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

at my wish, but at hers [Pointing to vera], and
now for five months, dose on six almost, we have
heard nothing from him.

VERA. Father, he will come back.

PETER. Ay! the prodigals always return; but
let him never darken my doors again.

VERA [SiUing down pensive]. Some evil has
come on him; he must be dead! Oh! Michael, I
am so wretched about Dmitri.

MICH. Will you never love any one but him,
Vera?

VERA [Smiling]. I don’t know ; there is so much
else to do in the world but love.

MICH. Nothing else worth doing, Vera.

PETER. What noise is that, Vera? [A metallic
dink is heard.]

VERA [Rising and going to the door]. I don’t
know, Father; it is not like the cattle bells, or I
would think N icholas had come from the fair. Oh !
Father! it is soldiers! — coming down the hill —
there is one of them on horseback. How pretty
they look! But there are some men with them
with chains on! They must be robbers. Oh!
don’t let them in. Father; I couldn’t look at them.

PETER. Men in chains! Why, we are in luck,
my child ! I heard this was to be the new road to
Siberia, to bring the prisoners to the mines; but
I didn’t believe it. My fortune is made ! Bustle,
Vera, bustle! I’ll die a rich man after all. There
will be no lack of good customers now. An honest
man should have the chance of making his living
out of rascals now and then.

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

437

VERA. Are these men rascals, Father? What
have they done?

PETER. I reckon they’re some of those Nihilists
the priest warns us against. Don’t stand there
idle, my girl.

VERA. I suppose, then, they are all wicked men .

[Sound of soldiers outside; cry of “Hall!” enter
Russian officer with a. body of soldiers and eight men
in chains, raggedly dressed; one of them on entering
hurriedly puts his coal above his ears and hides his
face; some soldiers guard the door, others sit down;
the prisoners stand.]

COLONEL. Innkeeper!

PETER. Yes, Colonel.

COLONEL [Pointing to Nihilists], Give these men
some bread and water.

PETER [To himself], I shan’t make much out of
that order.

COLONEL. As for myself, what have you got fit
to eat?

PETER. Some good dried venison, your Excel-
lency — and some rye whisky.

COLONEL. Nothing else?

PETER. Why, more whisky, your Excellency.

COLONEL. What clods these peasants are I You
have a better room than this?

PETER. Yes, sir.

COLONEL. Bring me there. Sergeant, post your
picket outside, and see that these scoundrels do
not communicate with any one. No letter writing,
you dogs, or you’ll be flogged for it. Now for the
venison. [To peter bowing before him.] Get out

43S

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

of the way, you fool! Who is that girl? [Sees

VERA.]

PETER. My daughter, your Highness.

COLONEL. Can she read and write?

PETER. Ay, that she can, sir.

COLONEL. Then she is a dangerous woman.
No peasant should be allowed to do anything of the
kind. Till your fields, store your harvests, pay your
taxes, and obey your masters — that is your duty.

VERA. Who are our masters?

COLONEL. Young woman, these men are going
to the mines for life for asking the same foolish
question.

VERA. Then they have been unjustly con-
demned.

PETER. Vera, keep your tongue quiet. She is
a foolish girl, sir, who talks too much.

COLONEL. Every woman docs talk too much.
Come, where is this venison? Count, I am wait-
ing for you. How can you see anything in a girl
with coarse hands? [He passes with peter and
his aide-de-camp into an inner room.]

VERA [To one of the Nihilists], Won’t you sit
down? you must be tired.

sergeant. Come now, young woman, no talk-
ing to my prisoners.

VERA. I shall speak to them. How much do
you want?

SERGEANT. How much have you?

VERA. Will you let these men sit down if I give
you this? [Takes off her peasant’s necklace.] It is
all I have; it was my mother’s.

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

439

SERGEANT. WcH, it looks pretty enough, and is
heavy too. What do you want with these men?

VERA. They are hungry and tired. Let me go
to them?

ONE OF THE SOLDIERS. Let the wench be, if she
pays us.

SERGEANT. Well, have your way. If the Colonel
sees you, you may have to come with us, my
pretty one.

VERA [Advances to the Nihilists], Sit down; you
must be tired. [Serves them food.] What are you?

A PRISONER. Nihilists.

VERA. Who put you in chains?

PRISONER. Our Father the Czar.

VERA. Why?

PRISONER. For loving liberty too well.

VERA [To prisoner who hides his face]. What
did you want to do?

DMITRI. To give liberty to thirty millions of
people enslaved to one man.

VERA [Startled at the voice]. What is your name?

DMITRI. I have no name.

VERA. Where are your friends?

DMITRI. I have no friends.

VERA. Let me see your face!

DMITRI. You will see nothing but suffering in
it. They have tortured me.

VERA [Tears the cloak from Ms face]. Oh, God!
Dmitri! my brother.

DMITRI. Hush! Vera; be calm. You must not
let my father know; it would kill him. I thought
J could free Russia. I heard men talk of Liberty

440

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

one night in a caf6. I had never heard the word
before. It seemed to be a new god they spoke of.
I joined them. It was there all the money went.
Five months ago they seized us. They found me
printing the paper. I am going to the mines for
life. I could not \vritc. I thought it would be
better to let you think I was dead; for they are
bringing me to a living tomb.

VERA {Looking round]. You must escape,
Dmitri. I will take your place.

DMITRI. Impossible! You can only revenge
us.

VERA. I shah revenge you.

DMITRI. Listen I there is a house in Moscow

SERGEANT. Prisoners, attention! — the Colonel
is coming — young woman, your time is up.

[Enter colonel, aide-de-camp and peter.]

PETER. I hope your Highness is pleased with
the venison. I shot it myself.

COLONEL. It had been better had you talked
less about it. Sergeant, get ready. [Gives purse
to PETER.] Here, you cheating rascal!

PETER. My fortune is made! long live your
Highness. I hope your Highness will come often
this way.

COLONEL. By Saint Nicholas, I hope not. It is
too cold here for me. [To veha.] Young girl,
don’t ask questions again about what does not
concern you. I will not forget your face.

VERA. Nor I yours, or what you are doing.

COLONEL. You peasants are getting too saucy
since you ceased to be serfs, and the knout is the

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS 441

best school for you to learn politics in. Sergeant,
proceed.

[The COLONEL turns and goes to top of stage. The
prisoners pass out double file; as dmitbi passes vera
he lets a piece of paper fall on the ground; she puts
her foot on it and remains immobile.]

peter [Who has been counting the money the
COLONEL gave him]. Long life to your Highness.
I will hope to see another batch soon. [Suddenly
catches sight of dmitei as he is going out of the door,
and screams and rushes up.] Dmitri! Dmitri! my
God ! what brings you here? he is innocent, I tell
you. I’ll pay for him. Take your money [Flings
money on the ground], take all I have, give me my
son. Villains! VUlains! where are you bringing
him?

COLONEL. To Siberia, old man.

PETER. No, no; take me instead.

COLONEL. He is a Nihilist.

PETER. You lie! you lie! He is innocent. [The
soldiers force him back vdth their guns and shut the
door against him. He beats with his fists against it.]
Dmitri! Dmitri! a Nihilist! [Falls down on
Poor.]

VERA [Who has remained motionless, picks up
paper now from under her feet and reads]. ‘ 99 Rue
Tchemavaya, Moscow. To strangle whatever
nature is in me; neither to love nor to be loved;
neither to pity nor to be pitied ; neither to marry
nor to be given in marriage, till the end is come.’
My brother, I shall keep the oath. [Kisses the
paper.] You shall be revenged !

442 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

[VEEA stands immobile, holding paper in her
lifted hand, peter is lying on the floor. MICHAEL,
who has just come in, is bending over him.]

END OF PROLOGUE

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

ACT I

Scene — 99 Rue Tchernavaya, Moscow. A large
garret lit by oil lamps hung from ceiling. Some
masked men standing silent and apart from one
another. A man in a scarlet mask is writing at a
table. Door at back. Man in yellow with drawn
sword at it. Knocks heard. Figures in cloaks and
masks enter.

Password. Per cruccm ad lucem.

Answer. Per sanguinem ad libertatem.

[Clock strikes, conspiratoes form a semicircle
in the middle of the stage.]

PRESIDENT. What is the word?

FIRST CONSP. Nabat.

PRES. The answer?

SECOND CONSP. Kalit.

PRES. What hour is it?

THIRD CONSP. The hour to suffer.

PRES. What day?

FOURTH CONSP. The day of oppression.

PRES. What year?

FIFTH CONSP. Since the Revolution of France,
the ninth year.

PRES. How many are we in number?

SIXTH CONSP. Ten, nine, and three.

443

444

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

PRES. The GalilaBan had less to conquer the
world; but what is our mission?

SEVENTH CONSP. To give freedom.

PRES. Our creed?

EIGHTH CONSP. To annihilate.

PRES. Our duty?

NINTH CONSP. To obcy.

PRES. Brothers, the questions have been an-
swered well. There are none but Nihilists pres-
ent. Let us sec each other’s faces. [The conspir-
ators unmask.] Michael, recite the oath.

MICHAEL. To strangle whatever nature is in us;
neither to love nor to be loved, neither to pity
nor to be pitied, neither to marry nor to be given
in marriage, till the end is come; to stab secretly
by night; to drop poison in the glass; to set father
against son, and husband against wife; without
fear, without liope, without future, to suffer, to
annihilate, to revenge.

PRES. Arc we all agreed?

CONSPIRATORS. Wc are all agreed. [They dis-
perse in various directions about the stage.]

PRES. ’Tis after the hour, Michael, and she is
not yet here.

MICH. Would that she were! We can do little
without her.

ALEXIS. She cannot have been seized, Presi-
dent? but the police arc on her track, I know.

MICH. You always seem to know a good deal
about the movements of the police in Moscow —
too much for an honest conspirator.

PRES. If those dogs have caught her, the red

ACT I] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

445

flag of the people will float on a barricade in every
street till we find her! It was foolish of her to go
to the Grand Duke’s balk I told her so, but she
said she wanted to see the Czar and all his cursed
brood face to face once.

ALEXIS. Gone to the State ball?

MICH. I have no fear. She is as hard to cap-
ture as a shc-wolf is, and twice as dangerous; be-
sides, she is well disguised. But is there any news
from the Palace to-night, President? What is
that bloody despot doing now besides torturing
his only son? Have any of you seen him? One
hears strange stories about him. They say he
loves the people; but a king’s son never does
that. You cannot breed them like that.

PRES. Since he c^mc back from abroad a year
ago his father has kept him in close prison in his
palace.

MICH. An excellent training to make him a
tyrant in his turn; but is there any news, I say?

PRES. A council is to be held to-morrow, at
four o’clock, on some secret business the spies
cannot find out.

MICH. A council in a king’s palace is sure to be
about some bloody work or other. But in what
room is this council to be held?

PRES. [Reading from letter]. In the yellow tap-
estry room called after the Empress Catherine.

MICH. I care not for such long-sounding names.
I would know where it is.

PRES. I cannot tell, Michael. I know more
about the insides of prisons than of palaces.

446

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MICH. [Speaking suddenly to alexis]. Where is
this room, Alexis?

ALEXIS. It is on the first floor, looking out on
to the inner courtyard. But why do you ask,
Michael?

MICH. Nothing, nothing, boy! I merely take
a great interest in the Czar’s life and movements
and I knew you could tell me all about the palace.
Every poor student of medicine in Moscow knows
all about king’s houses. It is their duty, is it not?

ALEXIS [Aside], Can Michael suspect me?
There is something strange in his manner to-
night. Why doesn’t she come? The whole fire
of revolution seems fallen into dull ashes when she
is not here.

MICH. Have you cured many patients lately,
at your hospital, boy?

ALEX. There is one who lies sick to death I
would fain cure, but cannot.

MICH. Ay, and who is that?

ALEX. Russia, our mother.

MICH. The curing of Russia is surgeon’s busi-
ness, and must be done by the knife. I like not
your method of medicine.

PRES. Professor, we have read the proofs of
your last article; it is very good, indeed.

MICH. What is it about, Professor?

PROFESSOR. The subject, my good brother, is
assassination considered as a method of political
reform.

MICH. I think little of pen and ink in revolu-
tions. One dagger will do more than a hundred

ACT ij VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

447

epigrams. Still, let us read this scholar’s last
production. Give it to me. I will read it myself.

PROF. Brother, you never mind your stops;
let Alexis read it.

MICH. Ay! he is as tripping of speech as if he
were some young aristocrat; but for my own part
I care not for the stops so that the sense be plain.

ALEX. [Reading]. ‘The past has belonged to
the tyrant, and he has defiled it ; ours is the future,
and we shall make it holy.’ Ay! let us make the
future holy; let there be one revolution at least
which is not bred in crime, nurtured in murder!

mcH. They have spoken to us by the sword,
and by the sword we shall answer! You are too
delicate for us, Alexis. There should be none
here but men whose hands are rough with labour
or red with blood.

PRES. Peace, Michael, peace! He is the brav-
est heart among us.

MICH. [Aside]. He will need to be brave to-
night.

[The sound of the sleigh bells is heard outside.]

VOICE [Outside]. Per crucem ad lucem.

Answer of man on guard. Per sanguinem ad
libertatem.

MICH. Who is that?

VERA. God save the people!

PRES. Welcome, Vera, welcome! We have
been sick at heart till we saw you; but now me-
thinks the star of freedom has come to wake us
from the night.

VERA. It is night, indeed, brother! Night

448

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

without moon or star! Russia is smitten to the
heart! The man Ivan whom men call the Czar
strikes now at our mother with a dagger deadlier
than ever forged by tyranny against a people’s
life!

MICH. What has the tyrant done now?

VERA. To-morrow martial law is to be pro-
claimed in Russia.

OMNES. Martial law! We arc lost! We are
lost!

ALEX. Martial law! Impossible!

MICH. Fool, nothing is impossible in Russia
but reform.

VERA. Ay, martial law. The last right to which
the people clung has been taken from them.
Without trial, without appeal, without accuser
even, our brothers will be taken from their houses,
shot in the streets like dogs, sent away to die in
the snow, to starve in the dungeon, to rot in the
mine. Do you loiow what martial law means?
It means the strangling of a whole nation. The
streets will be filled with soldiers night and day;
there will be sentinels at every door. No man
dare walk abroad now but the spy or the traitor.
Cooped up in the dens we hide in, meeting by
stealth, speaking with bated breath; what good
can we do now for Russia?

PRES. We can suffer at least.

VERA. We have done that too much already.
The hour is now come to annihilate and to revenge.

PRES. Up to this the people have borne every-
thing.

ACT i] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

440

VERA. Because they have understood nothing.
But now we, the Nihilists, have given them the
tree of knowledge to eat of, and the day of silent
suffering is over for Russia.

MICH. Martial law, Vera! This is fearful tid-
ings you bring.

PRES. It is the death warrant of liberty in
Russia.

VERA. Or the tocsin of revolution.

MICH. Are you sure it is true?

VERA. Here is the proclamation. I stole it
myself at the ball to-night from a young fool, one
of Prince Paul’s secretaries, who had been given
it to copy. It was that which made me so late.
[vERA hands proclatnalion io Michael, who reads it.]

MICH. ‘To ensure the public safety — martial
law. By order of the Czar, father of his people.’
The father of his people!

VERA. Ay! a father whose name shall not be
hallowed, whose kingdom shall change to a re-
public, whose trespasses shall not be forgiven
him, because he has robbed us of our daily bread ;
with whom is neither might, nor right, nor glory,
now or forever.

PRES. It must be about this that the council
meet to-morrow. It has not yet been signed.

ALEX. It shall not be while I have a tongue to
plead with.

MICH. Or while I have hands to smite with.

VERA. Martial law! 0 God, how easy it is for
a king to kill his people by thousands, but we
cannot rid ourselves of one crowned man in

460

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

Europe! What is there of awful majesty in these
men which makes the hand unsteady, the dagger
treacherous, the pistol-shot harmless? Are they
not men of like passions with ourselves, vulnerable
to the same diseases, of flesh and blood not dif-
ferent from our own? What made Olgiati tremble
at the supreme crisis of that Roman life, and
Guido’s nerve fail him when lie should have been
of iron and of steel? A plague, I say, on these
fools of Naples, Berlin, and Spain! Methinks
that if I stood face to face with one of the crowned
men my eye would see more clearly, my aim be
more sure, my whole body gain a strength and
power that was not my own! Oh, to think what
stands between us and freedom in Europe! a few
old men, wrinkled, feeble, tottering dotards whom
a boy could strangle for a ducat, or a woman stab
in a night-time. And these arc the things that
keep us from democracy, that keep us from lib-
erty. But now methinks the brood of men is
dead and the dull earth grown sick of child-
bearing, else would no crowned dog pollute God’s
air by living.

OMNES. Try us! Try us! 'Try us!

MICH. We shall try thee, too, some day,
Vera.

VERA. I pray God thou mayest! Have I not
strangled whatever nature is in me, and shall I not
keep my oath?

MICH. [To President]. Martial law. President!
Come, there is no time to be lost. We have twelve
hours yet before us till the council meet. Twelve

ACT 1] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

451

hours! One can overthrow a dynasty in less time
than that.

PRES. Ay 1 or lose one’s own head.

[MICHAEL and the president retire to one corner
of the stage and sit whispering, vera takes up the
proclamation, and reads it to herself, alexis
watches and suddenly •rushes up to her.]

ALEX. Vera!

VERA. Alexis, you here! Foolish boy, have I
not prayed you to stay away? All of us here are
doomed to die before our time, fated to expiate by
suffering whatever good we do; but you, with your
bright, boyish face you are too young to die yet.

ALEX. One is never too young to die for one’s
country!

VERA. Why do you come here night after night?

ALEX. Because I love the people.

VERA. But your fellow-students must miss you.
Are there no traitors among them? You know
what spies there are in the University here. 0
Alexis, you must go ! You see how desperate suf-
fering has made us. There is no room here for a
nature like yours. You must not come again.

ALEX. Why do you think so poorly of me?
Why should 1 live while my brothers suffer?

VERA. You spake to me of your mother once.
You said you loved her. Oh, think of her!

ALEX. I have no mother now but Russia, my
life is hers to take or give away; but to-night I am
here to see you. They tell me you are leaving for
Novgorod to-morrow.

VERA. I must* They are getting faint-hearted

452

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

there, and I would fan the flame of this revolution
into such a blaze that the eyes of all kings in
Europe shall be blinded. If martial law is passed
they will need me all the more there. There is no
limit, it seems, to the tyranny of one man; but
there shall be a limit to the sufi’ering of a whole
people.

ALEX. God knows it, I am with you. But you
must not go. The police arc watching every train
for you. When you are seized they have orders to
place you without trial in the lowest dungeon of
the palace. I know it — no matter how. Oh,
think how without you the sun goes from our life,
how the people will lose their leader and liberty
her priestess. Vera, you must not go !

VERA. If you wish it, I will stay. I would live
a little longer for freedom, a little longer for Russia.

ALEX. When you die then Russia is smitten in-
deed; when you die then I shall lose all hope — all.
. . . Vera, this is fearful news you bring — martial
law — it is too terrible. I knew it not, by my soul,
I knew it not!

VERA. How could you have known it? It is
too well laid a plot for that. This great White
Czar, whose hands are red with the blood of the
people he has murdered, whose soul is black with
his iniquity, is the cleverest conspirator of us all.
Oh, how could Russia bear two hearts like yours
and his!

ALEX. Vera, the Emperor was not always like
this. There was a time when he loved the people.
It is that devil, whom God curse, Prince Paul

ACT l]

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

453

Maraloffski who has brought him to this. To-
morrow, I swear it, I shall plead for the people to
the Emperor.

VEKA. Plead to the Czar! Foolish boy, it is
only those who are sentenced to death that ever
see our Czar. Besides, what should he care for a
voice that pleads for mercy? The cry of a strong
nation in its agony has not moved that heart of
stone.

ALEX. [Aside]. Yet shall I plead to him. They
can but kill me.

PROF. Here are the proclamations, Vera. Do
you think they will do?

VERA. I shall read them. How fair he looks!
Mcthinks he ne\ er seemed so noble as to-night.
Liberty is blessed in having such a lover.

ALEX. Well, President, what are you deep in?

MICH. We are thinking of the best way of kill-
ing bears. [Whispers to president and leads him
aside.]

PROF. [To VERA]. And the letters from our
brothers at Paris and Berlin. What answer shall
w(! send to them?

\T5RA [Takes them mechanically]. Had I not
strangled nature, sw orn neither to love nor to be
loved, mcthinks I might have loved him. Oh, I
am a fool, a traitor myself, a traitor myself! But
why did he come amongst us with his bright young
face, his heart aflame for liberty, his pure white
soul? Why does he make me feel at times as if I
would have him as my king. Republican though I
be? Oh, fool, fool, fool ! False to your oath ! weak

454

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

as water! Have done! Remember what you are
— a Nihilist, a Nihilist!

PRES. [To MICHAEL]. But you will be seized,
Michael.

MICH. I think not. I will wear the uniform of
the Imperial Guard, and the Colonel on duty is
one of us. It is on the first floor, you remember;
so I can take a long shot.

PRES. Sliall I tell the brethren?

MICH. Not a word, not a word! There is a
traitor amongst us.

VERA. Come, are these the proclamations?
Yes, they will do; yes, they will do. Send five
hundred to Kiev and Odessa and Novgorod, five
hundred to Warsaw, and ha\ e twice the number
distributed among the Southern Provinces, though
these dull Russian peasants care little for our
proclamations, and less for our martyrdoms.
When the blow is struck it must be from the town,
not from the country.

MICH. Ay, and by the sword not by the goose-
quill.

VERA. Where are the letters from Poland?

PROF. Here.

VERA. Unhappy Poland! The eagles of Russia
have fed on her heart. We must not forget our
brothers there.

PRES. Is this true, Michael?

MICH. Ay, I stake my life on it.

PRES. Let the doors be locked, then. Alexis
Ivanacievitch entered on our roll of the brothers as
a Student of the School of Medicine at Moscow.

ACT ij

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

455

Why did you not tell us of this bloody scheme of
martial law?

ALEX. I, President?

MICH. Ay, you! You knew it, none better.
Such weapons as these are not forged in a day.
Why did you not tell us of it? A week ago there
had been time to lay the mine, to raise the barri-
cade, to strike one blow at least for liberty. But
now the hour is past! It is too late, it is too late!
Why did you keep it a secret from us, I say?

ALEX. Now by the hand of freedom, Michael,
my brother, you wrong me. I knew nothing of
this hideous law. By my soul, my brothers, I
knew not of it ! How should I know?

MICH. Because you are a traitor! Where did
you go when you left us the night of our last meet-
ing here?

ALEX. To mine own house, Michael.

MICH. Liar! I was on your track. You left
here an hour after midnight. Wrapped in a large
cloak, you crossed the river in a boat a mile below
the second bridge, and gave the ferryman a gold
piece, you, the poor student of medicine! You
doubled back twice, and hid in an archway so long
that I had almost made up my mind to stab you at
once, only that I am fond of hunting. So! you
thought that you had baffled all pursuit, did you?
Fool ! I am a bloodhound that never loses the scent.

I followed you from street to street. At last I saw
you pass swiftly across the Place St. Isaac, whisper
to the guards the secret password, enter the palace
by a private door with your own key.

456

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

CONSPIRATORS. Thc palace!

VERA. Alexis!

MICH. I waited. All through the dreary
watches of our long Russian night I waited, that
I might kill you with your Judas hire still hot in
your hand. But you never came out; you never
left that palace at all. I saw the blood-red sun rise
through the yellow fog over thc murky town; I
saw a new day of oppression dawn on Russia; but
you never came out. So you pass nights in the
palace, do you? You know the password for the
guards! you have a key to a secret door. Oh, you
are a spy — you are a spy! I never trusted you,
with your soft white hands, your curled hair, your
pretty graces. You have no mark of suffering
about you; you cannot be of the people. You are
a spy — ^a spy — traitor.

OMNES. Kill him! Kill him! [Draw their knives.]

VERA [Rushing in front of alexis]. Stand back,
I say, Michael! Stand back all! Do not dare lay
a hand upon him ! He is the noblest heart amongst
us.

OMNES. Kill him! Kill him! He is a spy!

VERA. Dare to lay a finger on him and I leave
you all to yourselves.

PRES. Vera, did you not hear what Michael
said of him? He stayed all night in Czar’s palace.
He has a password and a private key. What else
should he be but a spy?

VESA. Bah! I do not believe Michael. It is a
lie! It is a lie! Alexis, say it is a lie !

ALEX. It is true. Michael has told what he

ACT i] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

457

saw. I did pass that night in the Czar’s palace.
Michael has spoken the truth.

VERA. Stand back, I say; stand back! Alexis,
I do not care. I trust you ; you would not betray
us; you would not sell the people for money. You
are honest, true! Oh, say you are no spy!

ALEX. Spy? You know I am not. I am with
you, my brothers, to the death.

MICH. Ay, to your own death.

ALEX. Vera, you know I am true.

VERA. I know it well.

PRES. Why are you here, traitor?

ALEX. Because I love the people.

MICH. Then you can be a martyr for them?

VERA. You must kill me first, Michael, before
you Ia}>’ a finger on him.

PRES. Michael, we dare not lose V era. It is her
whim to let this boy live. Wc can keep him here
to-night. Up to this he has not betrayed us.

[Tramp of soldiers outside, knocking at door.]

VOICE. Open in the name of the Emperor!

MICH. He has betrayed us. This is your doing,

^y!

PRES. Come, Michael, come. We have no
time to cut one another’s throats while we have
our own heads to save.

VOICE. Open in the name of the Emperor!

PRES. Brothers, be masked all of you. Michael,
open the door. It is our only chance.

[Enter general kotemkin and soldiers.]

GEN. All honest citizens should be in their own
houses at an hour before midnight, and not more

458

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

than five people have a right to meet privately.
Have you not noticed the proclamation, fellow?

MICH. Ay, you have spoiled every honest wall
in Moscow with it.

VERA. Peace, Michael, peace. Nay, Sir, we
knew it not. We are a company of strolling play-
ers travelling from Samara to Moscow to amuse
His Imperial Majesty the Czar.

GEN. But I heard loud voices before I entered.
What was that?

VERA. We were rehearsing a new tragedy.

GEN. Your answers arc too honest to be true.
Come, let me see who you arc. Take oft’ those
players’ masks. By St. Nicliolas, my beauty, if
your face matches your figure, you must be a
choice morsel! Come, I say, pretty one; I would
sooner see your face than those of aU the others.

PRES. 0 God! if he sees it is Vera, we are all
lost !

GEN. No coquetting, my girl. Come, unmask,
I say, or I shall tell my guards to do it for you.

ALEX. Stand back, I say. General Kotemkin!

GEN. Who are you, fellow, that talks with such
a ripping tongue to your betters? [alexis takes
his mask off.] His Imperial Highness the Czare-
vitch!

OMNES. The Czarevitch! It is all over!

pres. He will give us up to the soldiers.

MICH. [To vera]. Why did you not let me
kill him? Come, we must fight to the death for it.

VERA. Peace! he will not betray us.

ALEX. A whim of mine, General! You know

ACT l]

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

459

how my father keeps me from the world and im-
prisons me in the palace. I should really be
bored to death if I could not get out at night in
disguise sometimes, and have some romantic ad-
venture in town. I fell in with these honest folks
a few hours ago.

GEN. But, your Highness

ALEX. Oh, they are excellent actors, I assure
you. If you had come in ten minutes ago, you
would have witnessed a most interesting scene.

GEN. Actors, are they. Prince?

ALEX. Ay, and very ambitious actors, too.
They only care to play before kings.

GEN. r faith, your Highness, I was in hopes I
had made a good haul of Nihilists.

ALEX. Nihilists in Moscow, General! with you
as liead of the police? Impossible!

GEN. So I always tell your Imperial father.
But I heard at the council to-day that that wo-
man Vera Sabouroff, the head of them, had been
seen in this very city. The Emperor's face turned
as w hite as the snow outside. I think I never saw
such terror in any man before.

ALEX. She is a dangerous woman, then, this
Vera Sabouroff?

GEN. The most dangerous in all Europe.

ALEX. Did you ever see her, General?

GEN. Why, five years ago, when I was a plain
Colonel, I remember her, your Highness, a com-
mon waiting girl in an inn. If I had known then
what she was going to turn out, I would have
flogged her to death on the roadside. She is not

460

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

a woman at all; she is a sort of devil! For the
last eighteen months I have been hunting her,
and caught sight of her once last September out-
side Odessa.

ALEX. How did you let her go, General?

GEN. I was by myself, and she shot one of my
horses just as I was gaining on her. If I see her
again I shan’t miss my chance. The Emperor
has put twenty tliousand roubles on her head.

ALEX. I hope you will get it. General; but
meanwhile you are frightening these honest people
our of their wits, and disturbing the tragedy.
Good night, General.

GEN. Yes; but I should like to see their faces,
your Highness.

ALEX. No, General; you must not ask that;
you know how these gipsies hate to be stared at.

GEN. Yes. But, your Higlmcss

ALEX. [Haughtily]. General, they arc my
friends, that is enough. And, General, not a
word of this little adventure here, you under-
stand. I shall rely on you.

GEN. I shall not forget. Prince. But shall we
not sec j^ou back to the palace? The State ball
is almost over and you are expected.

ALEX. I shall be there; but I shall return alone.
Remember, not a word about my strolling players.

GEN. Or your pretty gipsy, eh. Prince? your
pretty gipsy! F faith, I should like to sec her
before I go; she has such fine eyes through her
mask. Well, good night, your Highness; good
night.

ACT 1] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

461

ALEX. Good night, General.

[Exit GENERAL and the soldiers.]
VERA [Throwing off her mask]. Saved! and by
you!

ALEX. [Clasping her hand]. Brothers, you trust
me now?

TABLEAU

End of Act I

ACT II

Scene — Council Chamber in the Emperor’s Pal-
ace, hung with yellow tapestry. Table, with chair
of Stale, set for the Czar; window behind, opening
on to a balcony. As the scene progresses the light
otUside gets darker.

Present — prince Paul maraloffski, prince

PETROVITCH, COUNT ROUVALOFF, BARON RAFF,
COUNT PETOUCHOF.

PRINCE PETEO. So OUT young scatter-brained
Czarevitch has been forgiven at last, and is to
take his seat here again.

PRINCE PAUL. Yes; if that is not meant as an
extra punishment. For my own part, at least, I
find these Cabinet Councils extremely exhausting.

PRINCE PETRO. Naturally; you are always
speaking.

PRINCE PAUL. No; I think it must be that I
have to listen sometimes.

COUNT R. Still, anything is better than being
kept in a sort of prison, like he was — never al-
lowed to go out into the world.

PRINCE PAUL. My dear Count, for romantic
young people like he is, the world always looks
best at a distance; and a prison where one’s al-
lowed to order one’s own dinner is not at all a
bad place. [Enter the czarevitch. The courtiers

463

ACT II] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

463

rise.] Ah! good afternoon, Prince. Your High-
ness is looking a little pale to-day.

czARE. [Slowly, afler a pause]. I want change of
air.

PRINCE PAUL [Smiliny]. A most revolutionary
sentiment! Your Imperial father would highly
disapprove of any reforms with the thermometer
in Russia.

CZARE. [BiUerly]. My Imperial father had kept
me for six months in this dungeon of a palace.
This morning he has me suddenly woke up to see
some wretched Nihilists hung; it sickened me,
tlie bloody butchery, though it was a noble thing
to sec how well these men can die.

PRINCE PAUL. When you are as old as I
am. Prince, you will understand that there are
few things easier than to live badly and to die
well.

CZARE. Easy to die well ! A lesson experience
cannot have taught you, whatever you may know
of a bad life.

PRINCE PAUL [Shrugging his shoulders]. Expe-
rience, the name men give to their mistakes. I
never commit any.

CZARE. [Bilterly]. No; crimes are more in your
line.

PRINCE PETRO. [To the czarevitch]. The Em-
peror was a good deal agitated about your late
appearance at the ball last night. Prince.

COUNT R. [Laughing]. I believe he thought the
Nihilists had broken into the palace and carried
you off.

464

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

BARON RAFF. If they had you would have
missed a charming dance.

PRINCE PAUL. And an excellent supper. Grin-
goire really excelled himself in his salad. Ah!
you may laugh, Baron; but to make a good salad
is a much more difficult thing than cooking ac-
counts. To make a good salad is to be a brilliant
diplomatist — the problem is so entirely the same
in both cases. To know exactly how much oil
one must put with one’s vinegar.

BARON RAFF. A cook and a diplomatist! an
excellent parallel. If I had a son who was a fool
rd make him one or the other.

PRINCE PAUL. I see your father did not hold
the same opinion, Baron. But, believe me, you
are wrong to run down cookery. For myself, the
only immortality I desire is to invent a new sauce.
I have never had time enough to think seriously
about it, but I feel it is in me, I feel it is in me.

CZARE. You have certainly missed your
metier, Prince Paul; the cordon bleu would have
suited you much better than the Grand Cross of
Honour. But you know you could never have
worn your white apron well; you would have
soiled it too soon, your hands are not clean enough.

PRINCE PAUL [Bowing]. Que voulez vous? I
manage your father’s business.

CZARE. [Bitterly]. You mismanage my father’s
business, you mean! Evil genius of his life that
you are! before you came there was some love
left in him. It is you who have embittered his
nature, poured into his car the poison of treachcr-

ACT n] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

465

ous counsel, made him hated by the whole people,
made him what he is — a tyrant!

[The courtiers look significantly at each other.]

PRINCE PAUL [Calmly]. I see your Highness
does want change of air. But I have been an
eldest son myself. [Lights a cigarette.] I know
what it is when a father won’t die to please one.

[The CZAREVITCH goes to the top of the stage, and
leans against the window, looking out.]

PRINCE PETRO. [To BARON RAFP]. Foolish boy!
He will be sent into exile, or worse, if he is not
careful.

BARON RAFF. Yes. What a mistake it is to be
sincere!

PRINCE PETRO. The Only folly you have never
committed, Baron.

BARON RAFF. One has only one head, you know.
Prince.

PRINCE PAUL. My dear Baron, your head is
the last thing any one would wish to take from
you. [Pulls out snuffbox and offers it to prince

PETROVITCH.]

PRINCE PETRO. Thanks, Prince! Thanks!

PRINCE PAUL. Very delicate, isn’t it? I get it
direct from Paris. But under this vulgar Re-
public everything has degenerated over there.
‘Cotelettes k I’imp^riale’ vanished, of course,
with the Bourbon, and omelettes went out with
the Orleanists. La belle France is entirely ruined.
Prince, through bad morals and worse eookery.
[Enter the marquis de poivrard.] Ah! Marquis.
I trust Madame la Marquise is well?

466

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

MARQUIS DE p. You ouglit to know better than
I do, Prince Paul ; you see more of her.

PRINCE PAUL [Bowing], ]\^rhaps 1 see more in
her, Marquis. Your wife is really a charming
woman, so full of esprit ^ and so satirical too; she
talks continually of you when we are together.

PRINCE PETRO. [Looking 0 1 tkc cloclc]. His Maj-
esty is a little late to-day, is he not?

PRINCE PAUL. What has ha|)j)cncd to you, my
dear Petrovitch? you seem quite out of sorts. You
haven’t quarrelled with your cook, I hope? What
a tragedy that would be for you; you would lose
all your friends.

PRINCE PETRO. I fear I wouldn’t be so fortunate
as that. You forget I would still have my purse.
But you are wrong for once; my chef and I are on
excellent terms.

PRINCE PAUL. Then your creditors or Made-
moiselle Vera Sabouroff have been wTiting to you?
I find both of them such excellent correspondents.
But really you needn’t be alarmed. I find the
most violent proclamations from the Executive
Committee, as they call it, left all over my house.
I never read them ; they are so badly spelt as a rule.

PRINCE PETRO. Wrong again. Prince; the
Nihilists leave me alone for some reason or other.

PRINCE PAUL [Aside], Ah! true. I forgot. In-
difference is the revenge the world takes on
mediocrities.

PRINCE PETRO. I am bored with life, Prince.
Since the opera season ended I have been a per-
petual martyr to ennui.

ACT n] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

467

PRINCE PAUL. The maladie du siecle! You
want a new excitement, Prince. Let me see — you
have been married twice already; suppose you try
— falling in love, for once.

BARON R. Prince, I have been thinking a good
deal lately

PRINCE PAUL [IrUerrupling]. You surprise me
very much, Baron.

BARON R. I cannot understand your nature.

PRINCE PAUL [Smiling]. If my nature had been
made to suit your comprehension rather than my
own requirements, I am afraid I would have made
a vcty poor figure in the world.

COUNT R. There seems to be nothing in life
about which you would not jest.

PRINCE PAUL. Ah ! my dear Count, life is much
too important a thing ever to talk seriously
about it.

CZARE. [Coming back from the window]. I don’t
think Prince Paul’s nature is such a mystery. He
would stab his best friend for the sake of writing
an epigram on his tombstone, or experiencing a
new sensation.

PRINCE PAUL. Parbleu! I would sooner lose
my best friend than my worst enemy. To have
friends, you know, one need only be good-natured;
but when a man has no enemy left there must be
something mean about him.

CZARE. [Bitterly]. If to have enemies is a mea-
sure of greatness, then you must be a Colossus,
indeed. Prince.

PRINCE PAUL. Yes, I know I’m the most hated

468

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Uct n

man in Russia, except your father, except your
father, of course. Prince. He doesn’t seem to like
it much, by the way, but I do, I assure you.
[Bitlerly.] I love to drive through the streets and
sec how the canaille scowl at me from every corner.
It makes me feel I am a power in Russia; one man
against a hundred millions! Besides, I have no
ambition to be a popular hero, to be crowned with
laurels one year and pelted with stones the next; I
prefer dying peaceably in my own bed.

CZAEE. And after death?

PRINCE PAUL [Shrugging his shoulders]. Heaven
is a despotism. I shall be at home there.

CZARB. Do you never think of the people and
their rights?

PRINCE PAUL. The people and their rights bore
me. I am sick of both. In these modem days, to
be vulgar, illiterate, common and vicious, seems
to give a man a marvellous infinity of rights that
his honest fathers never dreamed of. Believe me.
Prince, in good democracy every man should be an
aristocrat; but these people in Russia who seek to
thrust us out are no better than the animals in one’s
preserves, and made to be shot at, most of them.

CZARE. [Excitedly]. If they are common, illit-
erate, vulgar, no better than the beasts of the field,
who made them so?

[Enter aide-de-camp.]

AIDE-DE-CAMP. His Imperial Majesty, the Em-
peror! [prince PAUL looks at the czarevitch, and
smiles.]

[Enter the czar, surrounded by his guard.]

ACT ii] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

469

CZARE. [Rushing forward io meet hirri]. Sire!

CZAE [Nervom and frightened]. Don’t come too
near me, boy! Don’t come too near me, I say!
There is always something about an heir to a crown
im wholesome to his father. Who is that man over
there? I don’t know him. What is he doing? Is
he a conspirator? Have you searched him? Give
him till to-morrow to confess, then hang him! —
hang him!

PEiNCE PAUL. Sire, you are anticipating his-
torjL This is Count Petouchof, your new am-
bassador to Berlin. He is come to kiss hands on
his appointment.

CZAE. To kiss my hand? There is some plot in
it. He wants to poison me. There, kiss my son’s
hand ! it will do quite as well.

[prince PAUL signs to prince petouchof to leave
the room. Exit petouchof and the guards, czar
sinks down into his chair. The courtiers remain
silent.]

prince PAUL [Approaching]. Sire! will your
Majesty

czar. What do you startle me like that for?
No, I won’t. [Watches the courtiers nervously.]
Why are you clattering your sword, sir? [To
count rouvaloff.] Take it off, I shall have no
man wear a sword in my presence [Looking at
czarevitch], least of all my son. [To prince
PAUL.] You are not angiy with me. Prince? You
won’t desert me, will you? Say you won’t desert
me. What do you want? You can have anything
— anything.

470

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act u

PRINCE PAUL [Bowing very low] . Sire ! 'tis enough
for me to have your confidence. [Aside.] I was
afraid he was going to revenge himself, and give
me another decoration.

CZAR [Returning to his chair]. Well, gentlemen.

MARQ. DE poiv. Sire, I have the honour to pre-
sent to you a loyal address from your subjects in
the Province of Archangel, expressing their horror
at the last attempt on your Majesty’s life.

PRINCE PAUL. The last attempt but two, you
ought to have said, Marquis. Don’t you see it is
dated three weeks back?

CZAR. They are good people in the Province of
Archangel — honest, loyal people. They love me
very much — simple, loyal people ; give them a pew
saint, it costs nothing. Well, Alexis [Turning to the
czarevitch] — how many traitors were hung this
morning?

CZARE . There were three men strangled. Sire.

CZAR. There should have been three thousand.
I would to God that this people had but one neck
that I might strangle them with one noose! Did
they tell anything? whom did they implicate?
what did they confess?

CZARE. Nothing, Sire.

CZAR. They should have been tortured then;
why weren’t they tortured? Must I always be
%hting in the dark? Am I never to know from
what root these traitors spring?

CZARE. What root should there be of discon-
tent among the people but tyranny and injustice
amongst their rulers?

ACT III VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

471

CZAR. What did you say, boy? tyranny! tyr-
anny! Am I a tyrant? I’m not. I love the
people. I’m their father. I’m called so in every
official proclamation. Have a care, boy; have a
care. You don’t seem to be cured yet of your
foolish tongue. [Goes over to prince Paul and puts
his hand on his shoulder,] Prince Paul, tell me
were there many people there this morning to see
the Nihilists hung?

PRINCE PAUL. Hanging is of course a good deal
less of a novelty in Russia now. Sire, than it was
three or four years ago; and you know how easily
the people get tired even of their best amusements.
But the square and the tops of the houses were
really quite crowded, were they not. Prince? [To
the CZAREVITCH who takes no notice.]

CZAR. That’s right; all loyal citizens should be
there. It shows them what to look forward to.
Did you arrest any one in the crowd?

PRINCE PAUL, Yes, Sire, a woman for cursing
your name. [The czarevitch starts anxiously.]
She was the mother of the two criminals.

CZAR [Looking at czarevitch]. She should have
blessed me for having rid her of her children. Send
her to prison.

CZARE. The prisons of Russia are too full al-
ready, Sire. There is no room in them for any
more victims.

CZAR. They don’t die fast enough, then. You
should put more of them into one cell at once.
You don’t keep them long enough in the mines.
If you do they’re sure to die; but you’re all too

472

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

merciful. I’m too merciful myself. Send her to
Siberia. She is sure to die on the way. {Enter an
AIDE-DE-CAMP.] Wlio’sthat? Who’s that?

AIDE-DE-CAMP. A letter for his Imperial Maj-
esty.

CZAR {To PRINCE PAUL]. 1 won’t Open it. There
may be something in it.

PRINCE PAUL. It would bc a very disappointing
letter, Sire, if there wasn’t. {Takes letter himself,
and reads it.]

PRINCE PETRO. {To COUNT ROUVALOFF]. It must
be some sad news. I know that smile too well.

PRINCE PAUL. From the Chief of the Police at
Archangel, Sire. ‘The Governor of the province
was shot this morning by a woman as he was enter-
ing the courtyard of his own house. The assassin
has been seized.’

CZAR. I never trusted the people of Archangel.
It’s a nest of Nihilists and conspirators. Take
away their saints; they don’t deserve them.

PRINCE PAUL. Your Highness would punish
them more severely by giving them an extra one.
Three governors shot in two months. {Smiles to
himself.] Sire, permit me to recommend your
loyal subject, the Marquis de Poivrard, as the new
governor of your Province of Archangel.

MARQ. DE poiv. [Hurriedly]. Sire, I am unfit for
this post.

PRINCE PAUL. Marquis, you are too modest.
Believe me, there is no man in Russia I would
sooner see Governor of Archangel than yourself.
[Whisyas to czar.]

ACT II] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

473

CZAR. Quite right, Prince Paul ; you are always
right. See that the Marquis’s letters are made out
at once.

PRINCE PAUL. He can start to-night, Sire. I
shall really miss you very much, Marquis. I
always liked your taste in wines and wives ex-
tremely.

MARQ. DE poiv. [To the czar]. Start to-night.
Sire? [prince Paul whispers to the czar.]

CZAR. Yes, Marquis, to-night; it is better to
go at once.

PRINCE PAUL. I shall sec that Madame la
Marquise is not too lonely while you are away;
so you need not be alarmed for her.

COUNT R. [To PRINCE petrovitch]. I should
be more alarmed for myself.

CZAR. The Governor of Archangel shot in his
own courtyard by a woman! Pm not safe here.
I’m not safe anywhere, with that she devil of the
revolution, Vera Sabouroff, here in Moscow.
Prince Paul, is that woman still here?

PRINCE PAUL. They tell me she was at the
Grand Duke’s ball last night. I can hardly be-
lieve that; but she certainly had intended to
leave for Novgorod to-day, Sire. The police
were watching every train for her; but, for some
reason or other, she did not go. Some traitor
must have warned her. But I shall catch her
yet. A chase after a beautiful woman is always
exciting.

CZAR. You must hunt her down with blood-
hounds, and when she is taken I shall hew her

m

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

limb from limb. I shall stretch her on the raek
till her pale white body is twisted and curled like
paper in the fire.

PRINCE PAUL. Oh, we shall have another hunt
immediately for her, Sire! Prince Alexis will
assist us, I am sure.

CZARE. You never require any assistance to
ruin a woman. Prince Paul.

CZAR. Vera, the Nihilist, in Moscow! 0 God,
were it not better to die at once the dog’s death
they plot for me than to live as I live now!
Never to sleep, or, if I do, to dream such horrid
dreams that Hell itself were peace when matched
with them. To trust none but those I have
bought, to buy none worth trusting! To see a
traitor in every smile, poison in every dish, a
dagger in every hand! To lie awake at night,
listening from hour to hour for the stealthy creep-
ing of the murderer, for the laying of the damned
mine! You are all spies! you are all spies! You
worst of all — you, my own son! Which of you
is it who hides these bloody proclamations under
my own pillow, or at the table where I sit?
Which of ye all is the Judas who betrays us? 0
God! 0 God! methinks there was a time once,
in our war with England, when nothing could make
me afraid. [This vnth more calm and pathos.] I
have ridden into the crimson heart of war, and
borne back an eagle which those wild islanders
had taken from us. Men said I was brave then.
My father gave me the Iron Cross of valour.
Oh, coidd he see me now with this coward’s livery

ACT II] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

475

ever in my cheek! [SmA;s into his chair,] I never
knew any love when I was a boy. I was ruled
by terror myself, how else should I rule now?
[Starts up.] But I will have revenge; I will have
revenge. For every hour I have lain awake at
night, waiting for the noose or the dagger, they
shall pass years in Siberia, centuries in the mines!
Ay ! I shall have revenge.

CZAKE. Father! have mercy on the people.
Give them what they ask.

PRINCE PAUL. And begin, Sire, with your own
head; they have a particular liking for that.

CZAR. The people! the people! A tiger which
I have let loose upon myself; but I will fight with
it to the death. I am done with half measures.
I shall crush these Nihilists at a blow. There shall
not be a man of them, ay, or a woman, either,
left alive in Russia. Am I Emperor for nothing,
that a woman should hold me at bay? Vera
Sabouroff shall be in my power, I swear it, before
a week is ended, though I bum my whole city to
find her. She shall be flogged by the knout, stifled
in the fortress, strangled in the square !

CZARE. 0 God!

CZAR. For two j^ears her hands have been
clutching at my throat; for two years she has made
my life a hell; but I shall have revenge. Martial
law. Prince, martial law over the whole Empire;
that will give me revenge. A good measure,
Prince, eh? a good measure.

PRINCE PAUL. And an economical one too. Sire.
It would cany off your surplus population in six

476

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

months; and save you many expenses in courts
of justice; they will not be needed now.

CZAR. Quite right. There arc too many people
in Russia, too much money spent on them, too
much money in courts of justice. Fll shut them
up.

CZARE. Sire, reflect before

CZAR. When can you have the proclamations
ready, Prince Paul?

PRINCE PAUL. They have been printed for the
last six months. Sire. I knew you would need
them.

CZAR. That's good ! That's very good ! Let us
begin at once. All, Prince, if every king in Europe
had a minister like you

CZARE. There would be less kings in Europe
than there are.

CZAR [In frightened whisper, to prince Paul].
What does he mean? Do you trust him? Ilis
prison hasn't cured him yet. Shall I banish him?
Shall I [Whispers] . . .? The Emperor Paul did
it. The Empress Catherine there [Points to picture
on the wall] did it. Why shouldn't I?

PRINCE PAUL. Your Majesty, there is no need
for alarm. The Prince is a very ingenuous young
man. He pretends to be devoted to the people,
and lives in a palace; preaches socialism, and
draws a salary that would support a province.
He'll find out one day that the best cure for Re-
publicanism is the Imperial crown, and will cut
up the " bonnet rouge ' of Democracy to make
decorations for his Prime Minister.

ACT II] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

477

CZAR. You are right. If he really loved the
people, he could not be my son.

PRINCE PAUL. If he lived with the people for a
fortnight, their bad dinners would soon cure him
of his democracy. Shall we begin, Sire?

CZAR. At once. Read the proclamation.
Gentlemen, be seated. Alexis, Alexis, I say, come
and hoar it! It will be good practice for you;
you will be doing it yourself some day.

CZARE. I have heard too much of it already.
[Takes his seat at the table.] [count rouvalofp
whispers to him.]

CZAR. What are you whispering about there.
Count Rouvaloff?

COUNT R. I was giving his Royal Highness
some good advice, your Majesty.

PRINCE PAUL. Count Rouvaloff is the typical
spcndthiift. Sire; he is always giving away what
he needs most. [Lays paper before the czar.] I
think. Sire, you will approve of this: — ‘Love of
the people,’ ‘Father of his people,’ ‘Martial
law,’ and the usual allusions to Providence in
the last line. All it requires now is your Imperial
Majesty’s signature.

CZARE. Sire!

PRINCE PAUL [Hurriedly]. I promise your Maj-
esty to crush every Nihilist in Russia in six
months if you sign this proclamation; every
Nihilist in Russia.

CZAR. Say that again! To crush every Nihilist
in Russia; to crush this woman, their leader, who
makes war upon me in my own city. Prince Paul

478

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

Maraloffski, I create you Marechale of the whole
Russian Empire to help you to carry out martial law.

CZAR. Give me the proclamation. I will sign
it at once.

PRINCE PAUL [Points on paper]. Here, Sire.

CZARE. [Starts up and puts his hands on the
paper]. Stay! I tell you, stay! The priests have
taken heaven from the people, and you would
take the earth away too.

PRINCE PAUL. We have no time, Prince, now.
This boy will ruin everything. The pen. Sire.

CZARE. What! is it so small a thing to strangle
a nation, to murder a kingdom, to wreck an em-
pire? Who are we who dare lay this ban of terror
on a people? Have wc less vices than they have,
that we bring them to the bar of judgment
before us?

PRINCE PAUL. What a Communist the Prince
is! He would have an equal distribution of sin
as well as of property.

CZARE. Warmed by the same sun, nurtured
by the same air, fashioned of flesh and blood like
to our own, wherein arc they different to us, save
that they starve while we surfeit, that they toil
while we idle, that they sicken while we poison,
that they die while wc strangle?

CZAR. How dare ?

CZARE. I dare all for the people; but you would
rob them of common rights of common men.

CZAR. The people have no rights.

CZARE. Then they have great wrongs. Father,
they have won your battles for you; from the

ACT 11] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

479

pine forests of the Baltic to the palms of India
they have ridden on victory’s mighty wings in
search of your glory! Boy as I am in years, I
have seen wave after wave of living men sweep
up the heights of battle to their death; aye, and
snatch perilous conquest from the scales of war
when the bloody crescent seemed to shake above
our eagles.

CZAR [Somewhat moved]. Those men arc dead.
What have I to do with them?

CZARE. Nothing! The dead are safe; you can-
not harm tliem now. They sleep their last long
sleep. Some in Turkish waters, others by the
wind-swept heights of Norway and the Dane!
But these, the living, our brothers, what have we
done for them? They asked you for bread, you
gave them a stone. They sought for freedom,
you scourged them with scoiq^ions. You have
sown the seeds of this revolution yourself!

PRINCE PAUL. And are we not cutting down
the harvest?

CZARE. Oh, my brothers! better far that ye had
died in the iron hail and screaming shell of battle
than to come back to such a doom as this! The
beasts of the forests have their lairs, and the wild
beasts their caverns, but the people of Russia,
conquerors of the world, have not where to lay
their heads.

PRINCE PAUL. They have the headsman’s block.

CZARE. The headsman’s block: Aye, you have
killed their souls at your pleasure, you would
kill their bodies now.

480

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act ii

CZAR. Insolent boj'! Have you forgotten who
is Emperor of Russia?

czAEE. No! The people reign now, by the
grace of God. You should have been their shep-
herd; you have fled away like the hireling, and
let the wolves in upon them.

CZAR. Take him away! Take him away,
Prince Paul !

CZARE. God hath given this people tongues to
speak with; you would cut them out that they
may be dumb in their agony, silent in their tor-
ture! But God hath given them hands to smite
with, and they shall smite! Ay! from the sick
and labouring womb of this unhappy land some
revolution, like a bloody child, shall rise up and
slay you.

czkB. [Leaping up]. Devil! Assassin! Wliy do
you beard me thus to my face?

CZARE. Because I am a Nihilist! [Tfte ministers
start to their feet; there u a dead silence for a few
minutes.]

CZAR. A Nihilist! a Nihilist! Scorpion whom I
have nurtured, traitor whom I have fondled, is
this your bloody secret? Prince Paul Maraloffski,
Marechale of the Russian Empire, arrest the
Czarevitch!

MINISTERS. Arrest the Czarevitch !

CZAR. A Nihilist ! If you have sown with them,
you shall reap with them ! If you have talked with
them, you shall rot with them! If you have lived
with them, with them you shall die!

PRINCE PETRO. Die!

tcT n] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

481

CZAR. A plague on all sons, I say! There
should be no more marriages in Russia when one
can breed such vipers as you are! Arrest the
Czarevitch, I say!

PRINCE PAUL. Czarevitch! by order of the
Emperor, I demand your sword, [czarevitch
gives up sword; prince Paul places U on the table].
Foolish boy! you arc not made for a conspirator;
you have not learned to hold your tongue. Heroics
arc out of place in a jialace.

CZAR [Sinks inlo his chair wilh his eyes fixed on the
czarevitch]. 0 God!

CZARE. If I am to die for the people, I am
ready; one Nihilist more or less in Russia, what
docs that matter?

PRINCE PAUL [Aside], A good deal I should say
to the one Nihilist.

CZARE. The mighty brotherhood to which I
belong has a thousand such as I am, ten thousand
better still ! [The czar starts in his seat.] The star
of freedom has risen alread3^ and far off I hear the
mighty wave democracy break on these cursed
shores.

PRINCE PAUL [To PRINCE petrovitch]. In that
case you and I had better learn how to swim.

CZARE. Father, Emperor, Imperial Master, I
plead not for my own life, but for the lives of my
brothers, the people.

PRINCE PAUL [Bitterly]. Your brothers, the
people. Prince, are not content with their own
lives, they always want to take their neighbour’s
toe.

482

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act ii

CZAR [Standing up], I am sick of being afraid.
I have done with terror now. From this day I
proclaim war against the people — war to their
annihilation. As they have dealt with me, so shall
I deal with them. I shall grind them to powder,
and strew their dust upon the air. There shall be
a spy in every man’s house, a traitor on every
hearth, a hangman in every village, a gibbet in
every square. Plague, leprosy, or fever shall be
less deadly than my wrath; I will make every
frontier a graveyard, every province a lazar-house,
and cure the sick by the sword. I shall have peace
in Russia, though it be the peace of the dead. Who
said I was a coward? Who said I was afraid? Sec,
thus shall I crush this people beneath my feet!
[Takes up sword of czarevitch off table and
tramples on it.]

CZARE. Father, beware, the sword you tread on
may turn and wound you. The people suffer long,
but vengeance comes at last, vengeance with red
hands and bloody purpose.

PRINCE PAUL. Bah! the people are bad shots;
they always miss one.

CZARE. There are times when the people are in-
struments of God.

CZAR. Ay ! and when kings are God’s scourges
for the people. Oh, my own son, in my own house !
My own flesh and blood against me! Take him
away! Take him away! Bring in my guards.
[Enter the Imperial Guard, czar points to czare-
vitch, who stands alone at the side of the stage.] To
the blackest prison in Moscow! Let me never see

ACT II] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

483

his face again, [czarevitch is being led out] No,
no, leave him! I don’t trust guards. They are all
Nihilists! They would let him escape and he
would kill me, kill me ! No, Fll bring him to prison
myself, you and I [To prince Paul]. I trust you,
you have no mercy. I shall have no mercy. Oh,
my own son against me! How hot it is! The air
stifles me! I feel as if I were going to faint, as if
something were at my throat. Open the windows,
I say ! Out of my sight ! Out of my sight ! I can’ t
bear his eyes. Wait, wait for me. [Throws ivindow
open and goes oui on balcony.]

prince PAUL [Looking at his watch]. The dinner
is sure to be spoiled. How annoying politics are
and eldest sons!

VOICE [Outside, in the street]. God save the
people! [czar is shot, and staggers back into the
room.]

CZARE. [Breaking from the guards, and rushing
over]. Father!

CZAR. Murderer! Murderer! You did it!
Murderer! [Dies.]

TABLEAU

End of Act II

ACT III

Same scene and business as Act I. Man in yellow
dress, with drawn sword, at the door.

Password outside. Vae tyrannis.

Answer. Vae victis [Repeated three times].

[Enter conspiratobs, tvho form a semicircle,
masked and cloaked.]

PRESIDENT. What hour is it?

FIRST CONSP. The hour to strike.

PRES. Wliat day?

SECOND CONSP. The day of Marat.

PRES. In what month?

THIRD CONSP. The month of liberty.

PRES. What is our duty?

FOURTH CONSP. To obey.

PRES. Our creed?

FIFTH CONSP. Parbleu, Mons. le President, I
never knew you had one.

CONSP. A spy! A spy! Unmask! Unmask!
A spy!

PRES. Let the doors be shut. There are others
but Nihilists present.

CONSP. Unmask! Unmask! Kill him! kill
him! [Masked conspirator unmasks.] Prince
Paul!

VERA. Devil! Who lured you into the lion’s
den!

CONSPS. Kill him ! kill him !

484

ACT III] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

485

PRINCE PAUL. En v^rit^, Messieurs, you are not
ovcr-hospitabic in your welcome!

VERA. Welcome! What welcome should we
give you but the dagger or the noose?

PRINCE PAUL. I had no idea, really, that the
Nihilists were so exclusive. Let me assure you
that if I had not always had an entree to the very
best society, and the very worst conspiracies, I
could never have been Prime Minister in Russia.

VERA. The tiger cannot change its nature, nor
the snake lose its venom; but are you turned a
lover of the people?

PRINCE PAUL. Mon Dieu, non. Mademoiselle!
I would much sooner talk scandal in a drawing-
room than treason in a cellar. Besides, I hate the
common mob, who smell of garlic, smoke bad
tobacco, get up early, and dine off one dish.

PRES. What have you to gain, then, by a
revolution?

PRINCE PATE. Mon ami, I have nothing left to
lose. That scatter-brained boy, the new Czar, has
banished me.

VERA. To Siberia?

PRINCE PAUL. No, to Paris. He has confiscated
my estates, robbed me of my office and my cook.
I have nothing left but my decorations. 1 am here
for revenge.

PRES. Then you have a right to be one of us.
We also meet daily for revenge.

PRINCE PAUL. You Want money, of course. No
one ever joins a conspiracy who has any. Here.
[Throws money on table.] You have so many spies

486

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

that I should think you want information. Well,
you will find me the best informed man in Russia
on the abuses of our Government. I made them
nearly all myself.

VERA. President, I don't trust this man. He
has done us too mueh harm in Russia to let him go
in safety.

PRINCE PAUL. Believe me, Mademoiselle, you
are wrong; I will be a most valuable addition to
your circle; as for you, gentlemen, if I had not
thought that you would be useful to me I shouldn't
have risked my neck among you, or dined an hour
earlier than usual so as to be in time.

PRES. Ay, if he had wanted to spy on us, Vera,
he wouldn't have come himself.

PRINCE PAUL [Aside], No; I should have sent
my best friend.

PRES. Besides, Vera, he is just the man to give
us the information we want about some business
we have in hand to-night.

VEHA. Be it so if you wish it.

PRES. Brothers, is it your will that Prince Paul
Maraloffski be admitted, and take the oath of the
Nihilist?

CONSP. It is! it is!

PRES. [Holding out the dagger and a paper]. Prince
Paul, the dagger or the oath?

PRINCE PAUL. [Smiles sardonically], I would
sooner annihilate than be annihilated. [Takes
paper,]

PRES. Remember: Betray us, and as long as
the earth holds poison or steel, as long as men can

ACT HI] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

487

strike or woman betray, you shall not escape ven-
jrjance. The Nihilists never forget their friends,
or forgive their enemies.

lEince PAUL. Really? I did not think you
were so civilised.

VERA [Pacing up and dovm]. Why is he not
here? He will not keep the crown. I know him
well.

PEES. Sign, [prince PAUL sijns.] You said you
thought we had no creed. You were wrong.
Read it.

VERA. This is a dangerous thing, President.
What can we do with this man?

PRES. We can use him.

VERA. And afterwards?

PRES. [Shrugging his shoulders]. Strangle him.

PRINCE PAUL [Reading], ‘ The rights of human-
ity !’ In the old times men carried out their rights
for themselves as they lived, but nowadays every
baby seems born with a social manifesto in its
mouth much bigger than itself. ‘ Nature is not a
temple, but a workshop : we demand the right to
labour.’ Ah, I shall surrender my own rights in
that respect.

VERA [Pacing up and down behind]. Oh, will he
never come? will he never come?

PRINCE PAUL. ‘The family as subversive of
true socialistic and communal unity is to be an-
nihilated.’ Yes, President, I agree completely
with Article 5. A family is a terrible incumbrance,
especially when one is not married. [Three knocks
at the door,]

488

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

VERA. Alexis at last!

Password, Ydd tyrannis!

Answer, Vaevictis! Vae victis! Vse victis!

[Enter Michael stroganoff.]

PRES. Michael, the regicide! Brothers, let us
do honour to a man who has killed a king.

VERA [Aside], Oh, he will come yet.

PRES. Michael, you have saved Russia.

MICH. Ay, Russia was free for a moment when
the tyrant fell, but the sun of liberty has set again
like that false dawn which cheats our eyes in
autumn.

PRES. The dread night of tyranny is not yet
past for Russia.

MICH. [Clutching his kntfe]. One more blow, and
the end is come indeed.

VERA [Aside], One more blow! What does he
mean? Oh, impossible 1 but why is he not with us?
Alexis! Alexis! why are you not here?

PRES. But how did you escape, Michael? They
said you had been seized.

MICH. I was dressed in the uniform of the Im-
perial Guard. The Colonel on duty was a brother,
and gave me the password. I drove through the
troops in safety with it, and, thanks to my good
horse, reached the walls before the gates were
closed.

PRES. What a chance his coming out on the
balcony was!

MICH. A chance? There is no such thing as
chance. It was God’s finger led him there.

PRES. And where have you been these three days?

ACT m] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

489

MICH. Hiding in the house of the priest Nich-
olas at the cross-roads.

PRES. Nicholas is an honest man.

MICH. Ay, honest enough for a priest. I am
here now for vengeance on a traitor!

VERA [Aside]. 0 God, will he never come?
Alexis! why arc you not here? You cannot have
turned traitor!

MICH. [Seeing prince pael.] Prince Paul
MaralolTski here! By St. George, a lucky cap-
ture! This must have been Vera’s doing. She
is the only one who could have lured that serpent
into tlic trap.

PRES. Prince Paul has just taken the oath.

VERA. Alexis, the Czar, has banisli jd him from
Russia.

MICH. Bah! A blind to cheat ns. We will keep
Prince Paul here, and find some office for him in
our reign of terror. He is well accustomed by
this time to bloody work.

PRINCE PAUL [Approaching michael]. That
was a long shot of yours, mon camaradc.

MICH. I have had a good deal of practice
shooting, since I have been a boy, off your High-
ness’s wild boars.

PRINCE PAUL. Arc my gamekeepers like moles,
then, always asleep?

MICH. No, Prince. I am one of them; but, like
you, I am fond of robbing what I am put to watch.

PRES. This must be a new atmosphere for you,
Prince Paul. We speak the truth to one another
here.

490

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

PRINCE PAUL. How misleading you must find
it. You have an odd medley here, President —
a little rococo, I am afraid.

PRES. You recognise a good many friends, I
dare say?

PRINCE PAUL. Yes, there is always more br'^ss
than brains in an aristocracy.

PRES. But you are here yourself?

PRINCE PAUL. I? As I cannot be Prime Min-
ister, I must be a Nihilist. There is no alternative.

VERA. 0 God, will he never come? The hand
is on the stroke of the hour. Will he never come?

MICH. [Aside], President, you know what we
have to do? Tis but a sorry hunter who leaves the
wolf cub alive to avenge his father. How are we
to get at this boy? It must be to-night. To-
morrow he will be throwing some sop of reform
to the people, and it will be too late for a Re-
public.

PRINCE PAUL. You arc quite right. Good kings
are the enemies of Democracy, and when he has
begun by banishing me you may be sure he in-
tends to be a patriot.

MICH. I am sick of patriot kings; what Russia
needs is a Republic.

PRINCE PAUL. Messieurs, I have brought you
two documents which I think will interest you —
the proclamation this young Czar intends pub-
lishing to-morrow, and a plan of the Winter Palace
where he sleeps to-night. [Hands papers]

VERA. I dare not ask them what they are plot-
ting about. Oh, why is Alexis not here?

■iiCT iiij VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

491

PRES. Prince, this is most valuable information.
Michael, you were right. If it is not to-night it
will be too late. Read that.

MICH. Ah ! A loaf of bread flung to a starving
nation. A lie to cheat the people. [Tears it up.]
It must be to-night. I do not believe in him.
Would he have kept his crown had he loved the
people? But how are we to get at him?

PRINCE PALL. The key of the private door in
the street. [Hands key.]

PRES. Prince, we are in your debt.

PRINCE PAUL [Smiling]. The normal condition
of the Nihilists.

MICH. Ay, but we are paying our debts off with
interest now. Two Emperors in one week. That
will make the balance straight. We would have
thrown in a Prime Minister if you had not come.

PRINCE PAUL. Ah, I am sorry you told me. It
robs my visit of all its picturesqueness and ad-
venture. I thought 1 was perilling my head by
coming here, and you tell me I have saved it.
One is sure to be disappointed if one tries to get
romance out of modern life.

MICH. It is not so romantic a thing to lose
one’s head, Prince Paul.

PRINCE PAUL. No, but it must often be very
dull to keep it. Don’t you find that sometimes?
[Clock strikes six.]

VERA [Sinking into a seal]. Oh, it is past the
hour! It is past the hour!

MICH. [To PRESIDENT]. Remember to-morrow
will be too late.

492

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act m

PRES. Brothers, it is full time. Which of us is
absent?

CONSPS. Alexis! Alexis!

PRES. Michael, read Rule 7.

MICH. ‘ Wlien any brother shall have disobeyed
a summons to be present, the President shall in-
quire if there is anything alleged against him.’

PRES. Is there anything against our brother
Alexis?

CONSP. lie wears a crown! He wears a crown!

PRES. Michael, read Article 7 of the Code of
Revolution.

MICH. ‘Between the Nihilists and all men who
wear crowns above their fellows, there is war to
the death.’

PRES. Brothers, what say you? Is Alexis, the
Czar, guilty or not?

OMNES. He is guilty!

PRES. What shall the penalty be?

OMNES. Death!

PRES. Let the lots be prepared ; it shall be to-
night.

PRINCE PAUL. Ah, this is really interesting! I
was getting afraid conspiracies were as dull as
courts are.

PROF. MARFA. My forte is more in writing
pamphlets than in taking shots. Still a regicide
has always a place in history.

MICH. If your pistol is as harmless as your pen,
this young tyrant will have a long life.

PRINCE PAUL. You ought to remember, too.
Professor, that if you were seized, as you probably

ACT in] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

493

would be, and hung, as you certainly would be,
there would be nobody left to read your own
articles.

PRES. Brothers, are you ready?

VERA [Starting up]. Not yet! Not yet! I
have a word to say.

MICH. [Aside]. Plague take her! I knew it
would come to this.

VERA. This boy has been our brother. Night
after night he has perilled his own life to come
here. Night after night, when every street was
filled with spies, every house with traitors. Deli-
cately nurtured like a king’s son, he has dwelt
among us.

PRES. Ay! under a false name. He lied to
us at the beginning. He lies to us now at the
end.

VERA. I swear he is true. There is not a man
here who does not owe him his life a thousand
times. When the bloodhounds were on us that
night, who saved us from arrest, torture, flogging,
death, but he ye seek to kill?

MICH. To kill all tyrants is our mission!

VERA. He is no tyrant. I know him well ! He
loves the people.

PRES. We know him too; he is a traitor.

VERA. A traitor! Three days ago he could
have betrayed every man of you here, and the
gibbet would have been your doom. He gave
you all your lives once. Give him a little time —
a week, a month, a few days; but not now — 0
God, not now!

494

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

CONSPS. [Brandishing daggers]. To-night! to-
night! to-night!

VEKA. Peace, you gorged adders; peace!

MICH. What, are we not here to annihilate?
shall we not keep our oath?

VEKA. Your oath! your oath! Greedy that
you are of gain, every man’s hand lusting for his
neighbour’s pelf, every heart set on pillage and
rapine; who, of ye all, if the crown were set on
his head, would give an empire up for the mob
to scramble for? The people are not yet fit for a
Republic in Russia.

PEES. Every nation is fit for a Republic.

MICH. The man is a tyrant.

VERA. A tyrant! Hath he not dismissed his
evil counsellors. That ill-omened raven of his
father’s life hath had his wings clipped and his
claws pared, and comes to us croaking for re-
venge. Oh, have mercy on him! Give him a
week to live!

PRES. Vera pleading for a king!

VERA [Pr<mdly\. I plead not for a king, but for
a brother.

MICH. For a traitor to his oath, for a coward
who should have flung the purple back to the
fools that gave it to him. No, Vera, no. The
brood of men is not dead yet, nor the dull earth
grown sick of child-bearing. No crowned man
in Russia shall pollute God’s air by living.

PRES. You bade us try you once ; we have tried
you, and you are found wanting.

MICH. Vera, I am not blind ; I know your secret.

ACT 111] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

495

You love this boy, this young prince with his
pretty face, his curled hair, his soft white hands.
Fool that you are, dupe of a lying tongue, do you
know what he would have done to you, this boy
you think loved you? He would have made you
his mistress, used your body at his pleasure,
thrown you away when he was wearied of you;
you, the priestess of liberty, the flame of Revolu-
tion, the torch of democracy.

VERA. What he would have done to me matters
little. To the people, at least, he will be true.
He loves the people — at least, he loves liberty.

PRES. So he would play the citizen-king, would
he, while we starve? Would flatter us with sweet
speeches, would cheat us with promises like his
father, would lie to us as his whole race have lied?

MICH. And you whose very name made every
despot tremble for his life, you, Vera Sabouroff,
you would betray liberty for a lover and the
people for a paramour!

CONSPS. TYaitress! Draw the lots; draw the
lots!

VERA. In thy throat thou liest, Michael! I
love him not. He loves me not.

MICH. You love him not? Shall he not die
then?

VERA [With an effort, clenching her hands]. Ay,
it is right that he should die. He hath broken
his oath. There should be no crowned man in
Europe. Have I not sworn it? To be strong
our new Republic should be drunk with the blood
of kings. He hath broken his oath. As the father

m

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

died so let the son die too. Yet not to-night, not
to-night. Russia, that hath home her centuries
of wrong, can wait a week for liberty. Give him
a week.

PEES. We will have none of you! Begone
from us to this boy you love.

MICH. Though I find him in your arms I shall
kill him.

CONSPS. To-night! To-night! To-night!

MICH. [Holding up his hand], A moment! I
have something to say. [Approaches veka ; speaks
very slowly.] Vera Sabouroff, have you forgotten
your brother? [Pauses to see effect; vera starts.]
Have you forgotten that young face, pale with
famine; those young limbs twisted witli torture;
the iron chains they made him walk in? What
week of liberty did they give him? What pity
did they show him for a day? [vera falls in a
chair.] Oh! you could talk glibly enough then
of vengeance, glibly enough of liberty. When
you said you would come to Moscow, your old
father caught you by the knees and begged you
not to leave him childless and alone. I seem to
hear his cries still ringing in my ears, but you
were as deaf to him as the rocks on the roadside;
as chill and cold as the snow on the hill. You left
your father that night, and three weeks after he
died of a broken heart. Y ou wrote to me to follow
you here. I did so; first because I loved you; but
you soon cured me of that; whatever gentle feel-
ing, whatever pity, whatever humanity, was in
my heart you withered up and destroyed, as the

ACT lu] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

407

canker worm eats the corn, and the plague kills
the child. You bade me cast out love from my
breast as a vile thing, you turned my hand to
iron and my heart to stone, you told me to live
for freedom and for revenge. I have done so;
but you, what have you done?

VERA. Let the lots be drawn! [conspirators
applaud.]

PRINCE PAUL [Aside]. Ah, the Grand Duke
will come to the throne sooner than he expected.
He is sure to make a good king under my guid-
ance. He is so cruel to animals, and never keeps
his word.

MICH. Now you are yourself at last, Vera.

VERA [Standing motionless in the middle]. The
lots, I say, the lots! I am no woman now. My
blood seems turned to gall; my heart is as cold
as steel is; my hand shall be more deadly. From
the desert and the tomb the voice of my prisoned
brother cries aloud, and bids me strike one blow
for liberty. The lots, I say, the lots!

PRES. Are you ready? Michael, you have the
right to draw first; you are a Regicide.

VERA. 0 God, into my hands! Into my hands!
[They draw the lots from a bowl surmounted by a skull.]

PRES. Open your lots.

VERA [Opening her lot]. The lot is mine! see
the bloody sign upon it! Dmitri, my brother,
you shall have your revenge now.

PRES. Vera Sabouroff, you are chosen to be a
regicide. God has been good to you. The dagger
or the poison? [Offers her dagger and vial.]

498

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

VERA. I can trust my hand better with the
dagger; it never fails. [Takes dagger.] I shall
stab him to the heart, as he has stabbed me.
Traitor, to leave us for a ribbon, a gaud, a bauble,
to lie to me every day he came here, to forget us
in an hour. Michael was right, he loved me not,
nor the people either. Methinks that if I was a
mother and bore a man-child I would poison my
breast to him, lest he might grow to a traitor
or to a king, [prince Paul whispers to the pres-
ident.]

PRES. Ay, Prince Paul, that is the best way.
Vera, the Czar sleeps to-night in his own room
in the north wing of the palace. Here is the key
of the private door in the street. The passwords
of the guards will be given to you. His own
servants will be drugged. You will find him
alone.

VERA. It is well. I shall not fail.

PRES. We will wait outside in the Place St.
Isaac, under the window. As the clock strikes
twelve from the tower of St. Nicholas you will give
us the sign that the dog is dead.

VERA. And what shall the sign be?

PRES. You are to throw us out the bloody
dagger.

MICH. Dripping with the traitor’s life.

PRES. Else we shall know that you have been
seized, and we will burst our way in, drag you
from his guards.

MICH. And kill him in the midst of them.

PRES. Michael, you will head us?

ACT III] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

499

MICH. Ay, I shall head you. See that your
hand fails not, Vera Sabouroff.

VERA. Fool, is it so hard a thing to kill one’s
enemy?

PRINCE PAUL [Aside]. This is the ninth con-
spiracy I have been in in Russia. They always
end in a ‘ voyage en Siberie’ for my friends and
a new decoration for myself.

MICH. It is your last conspiracy. Prince.

PRES. At twelve o’clock, the bloody dagger.

VERA. Ay, red with the blood of that false
heart. I shall not forget it. [Standing in the middle
of the stage.] To strangle whatever nature is in
me, neither to love nor to be loved, neither to
pity nor to be pitied. Ay! it is an oath, an oath.
Methinks the spirit of Charlotte Corday has en-
tered my soul now. I shall carve my name on
the world, and be ranked among the great
heroines. Ay! the spirit of Charlotte Corday
beats in each petty vein, and nerves my woman’s
hand to strike, as I have nerved my woman’s
heart to hate. Though he laugh in his dreams,
1 shall not falter. Though he sleep peacefully,
I shall not miss my blow. Be glad, my brother,
in your stifled cell; be glad and laugh to-night.
To-night this new-fledged Czar shall post with
bloody feet to Hell, and greet his father there!
This Czar! 0 traitor, liar, false to his oath, false
to me! To play the patriot amongst us, and now
to wear a crown; to sell us, like Judas, for thirty
silver pieces, to betray us with a kiss! [With
more passion.] 0 Liberty, 0 mighty mother of

600

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

eternal time, thy robe is purple with the blood
of those who have died for thee! Thy throne
is the Calvary of the people, thy crown the crown
of thorns. 0 crucified mother, the despot has
driven a nail through thy right hand, and the
tyrant through thy left! Thy feet are pierced
with their iron. When thou wert athirst thou
calledst on the priests for water, and they gave
thee bitter drink. They thrust a sword into thy
side. They mocked thee in thine agony of age
on age. Here, on thy altar, 0 Liberty, do I
dedicate myself to thy service; do with me as
thou wilt! [Brandishing dagger,] The end has
come now, and by thy sacred wounds, 0 crucified
mother, 0 Liberty, 1 sw'car that Russia shall be
saved!

CURTAIN

End of Act III

ACT IV

Scene — Antechamber of the czar’s private room.
Large window at the back, with drawn curtains over
it.

Present — prince petrovitch, baron raff,

MARQUIS DE POIVRARD, COUNT ROUVALOFF.

PRINCE PETRO. He is beginning well, this young
Czar.

BARON RAFF. [Shrugs Ms shoulders]. All young
Czars do begin well.

COUNT R. And end badly.

MARQ. DE poiv. Well, I havc no right to com-
plain. He has done me one good service, at any
rate.

PRINCE PETRO. Cancelled your appointment
to Archangel, I suppose?

MARQ. DE POIV. Ycs; my head wouldn’t have
been safe there for an hour.

[Enter general kotemkin.]

BARON RAFF. Ah! General, any more news of
our romantic Emperor?

GEN. KOTEMK. You are quite right to call him
romantic, Baron; a week ago I found him amusing
himself in a garret with a company of strolling
players; to-day his whim is all the convicts in
Siberia are to be recalled, and political prisoners,
as he calls them, amnestied.

SOI

502

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

PRINCE PETRO. Political prisoners! Why, halt
of them are no better than common murderers!

COUNT R. And the other half much worse?

BARON RAFF. Oh, you wrong them, surely.
Count. Wholesale trade has always been more
respectable than retail.

COUNT R. But he is really too romantic. He
objected yesterday to my having the monopoly
of the salt tax. He said the people had a right
to have cheap salt.

MARQ. DE poiv. Oh, that’s nothing; but he ac-
tually disapproved of a State banquet every night
because there is a famine in the Southern prov-
inces. [The young czar enters unobserved, and
overhears the rest.]

PRINCE PETRO. Quellc b^tisc! The more star-
vation there is among the people, the better. It
teaches them self-denial, an excellent virtue,
Baron, an excellent virtue.

BARON RAFF. I ha VC oftcn heard so; I have
often heard so.

GEN. KOTEMK. He talked of a Parliament, too,
in Russia, and said the people should have depu-
ties to represent them.

BARON RAFF. As if there was not enough brawl-
ing in the streets already, but we must give the
people a room to do it in. But, Messieurs, the
worst is yet to come. He threatens a complete
reform in the public service on the ground that
the people are too heavily taxed.

MARQ. DE porv. He can’t be serious there.
What is the use of the people except to get money

ACT IV] VEEA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

505

out of? But talking of taxes, my dear Baron,
you must really let me have forty thousand roubles
to-morrow; my wife says she must have a new
diamond bracelet.

COUNT E. [Aside to BARON eaff]. Ah, to match
the one Prince Paul gave her last week, I suppose.

PRINCE PETRO. I must have sixty thousand
roubles at once, Baron. My son is overwhelmed
with debts of honour which he can’t pay.

BARON RAFF. What an excellent son to imitate
his father so carefully !

GEN. KOTEMK. You are always getting money.
I never get a single kopeck I have not got a right
to. It’s unbearable; it’s ridiculous! My nephew is
going to be married. I must get his dowry for him .

PRINCE PETRO. My dear General, your nephew
must be a perfect Turk. He seems to get married
three times a week, regularly.

GEN. KOTEMK. Well, he wants the dowry to
console him.

COUNT R. I am sick of town. I want a house
in the country.

MARQ. DE POiv. I am sick of the country. I
want a house in town.

BARON RAFF. Mes amis, I am extremely sorry
for you. It is out of the question.

PRINCE PETRO. But my son, Baron?

GEN. KOTEMK. But my nephew?

M.\RQ. DE poiv. But my house in town?

COUNT R. But my house in the country?

MARQ. DE POIV. But my wife’s diamond brace-
let?

504

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

BARON RAFF. Gentlemen, impossible! The
old regime in Russia is dead; the funeral begins
to-day.

COUNT R. Then I shall wait for the resurrection.

PRINCE PETRO. Yes, but, en attendant, what are
we to do?

BARON RAFF. Wliat have we always done in
Russia when a Czar suggests reform? — ^nothing.
You forget we are diplomatists. Men of thought
should have nothing to do with action. Reforms
in Russia are very tragic, but they always end in
a farce.

COUNT R. I wish Prince Paul were here. By
the bye, I think this boy is rather ungrateful to
him. If that clever old Prince had not proclaimed
him Emperor at once without giving him time
to think about it, he would have given up his
crown, I believe, to the first cobbler he met in
the street.

PRINCE PETRO. But do you think, Baron, that
Prince Paul is really going?

BARON RAFF. He is exiled.

PRINCE PETRO. Ycs; but is he going?

BARON RAFF. I am sure of it; at least he told
me he had sent two telegrams already to Paris
about his dinner.

COUNT R. Ah! that settles the matter.

CZAR [Coming forward^. Prince Paul had better
send a third telegram and order [Counting them]
six extra places.

BARON RAFF. The devil!

CZAR. No, Baron, the Czar. Traitors! There

ACT rv] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

506

would be no bad kings in the world if there were
no bad ministers like you. It is men such as
you who wreck mighty empires on the rock of
their own greatness. Our mother, Russia, hath
no need of such unnatural sons. You can make
no atonement now; it is too late for that. The
grave cannot give back your dead, nor the gibbet
your martyrs, but I shall be more merciful to
you. I give you your lives! That is the curse I
would lay on you. But if there is a man of you
found in Moscow by to-morrow night your heads
will be off your shoulders.

BARON RAFF. You remind us wonderfully. Sire,
of your Imperial father.

CZAR. I banish you all from Russia. Your es-
tates are confiscated to the i)eople. You may
carry your titles with you. Reforms in Russia,
Baron, always end in a farce. You will have a
good opportunity. Prince Petrovitch, of prac-
tising self-denial, that excellent virtue! that ex-
cellent virtue! So, Baron, you think a Parlia-
ment in Russia would be merely a place for
brawling. Well, I will see that the reports of
each session are sent to you regularly.

BARON RAFF. Sire, you are adding another
horror to exile.

CZAR. But you will have such time for litera-
ture now. You forget you are diplomatists.
Men of thought should have nothing to do with
action.

PRINCE PETRO. Sire, we did but jest.

CZAR. Then I banish you for your bad jokes.

506

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

Bon voyage, Messieurs. If you value your lives
you will catch the first train for Paris. [Exeunt
MINISTERS.] Russia is well rid of such men as
these. They arc the jackals that follow in the
lion’s track. They have no courage themselves,
except to pillage and rob. But for these men
and for Prince Paul my father would have been
a good king, would not have died so horribly as
he did die. How strange it is, the most real parts
of one’s life always seem to be a dream! The
council, the fearful law which was to kill the peo-
ple, the arrest, the cry in the courtyard, the
pistol-shot, my father’s bloody hands, and then
the crown! One can live for years sometimes,
without living at all, and then all life comes
crowding into a single hour. I had no time to
think. Before my father’s hideous shriek of death
had died in my ears I found this crown on my
head, the purple robe around me, and heard my-
self called a king. I would have given it all up
then; it seemed nothing to me then; but now, can
I give it up now? Well, Colonel, well? [Enter

COLONEL OF THE GUARD.]

COLONEL. What password does your Imperial
Majesty desire should be given to-night?

CZAR. Password?

COLONEL. For the cordon of guards. Sire, on
night duty around the palace.

CZAR. You can dismiss them. I have no need
of them. [Exit colonel.] [Goes to the croum lying
on the table.] What subtle potency lies hidden
in this gaudy bauble, the crown, that makes one

ACT IV] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

607

feel like a god when one wears it? To hold in
one’s hand this little fiery coloured world, to
reach out one’s arm to earth’s uttermost limit,
to girdle the seas with one’s hosts ; this is to wear
a crown! to wear a crown! The meanest serf in
Russia who is loved is better crowned than I.
How love outweighs the balance! How poor ap-
pears the widest empire of this golden world when
matched with love! Pent up in this palace, with
spies dogging every step, I have heard nothing
of her; I have not seen her once since that fearful
hour three days ago, when I found myself sud-
denly the Czar of this wide waste, Russia. Oh,
could I see her for a moment; tell her now the
secret of my life I have never dared utter before;
tell her why I wear this crown, when I have sworn
eternal war against all crowned men! There was
a meeting to-night. I received my summons by
an unknown hand; but how could I go? I who
have broken my oath ! who have broken my oath !

[Enter page.]

PAGE. It is after eleven. Sire. Shall I take
the first watch in your room to-night?

CZAE. Why should you watch me, boy? The
stars are my best sentinels.

PAGE. It was your Imperial father’s wish, Sire,
never to be left alone while he slept.

CZAR. My father was troubled with bad dreams.
Go, get to your bed, boy; it is nigh on midnight,
and these late hours will spoil those red cheeks.
[page tries to kiss his hand.] Nay, nay; we have
played together too often as children for that.

508

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act nr

Oh, to breathe the same air as her, and not to
see her! the light seems to have gone from my
life, the sun vanished from my day.

PAGE. Sire, — Alexis, — let me stay with you
to-night! There is some danger over you; I feel
there is.

CZAK. What should I fear? I have banished
all my enemies from Russia. Set the brazier here,
by me; it is very cold, and I would sit by it for a
time. Go, boy, go; I have much to think about
to-night. [Goes to back of stage, draws aside cur-
tain. View of Moscow by moonlight.] The snow
has fallen heavily since sunset. How white and
cold my city looks under this pale moon! And
yet what hot and fiery hearts beat in this icy
Russia, for all its frost and snow! Oh, to see her
for a moment; to tell her all; to tell her why I am
a king! But she docs not doubt me; she said
she would trust in me. Though I have broken
my oath, she will have trust. It is very cold.
Where is my cloak? I shall sleep for an hour.
Then I have ordered my sledge, and, though I die
for it, I shall see Vera to-night. Did I not bid
thee go, boy? What! must I play the tyrant so
soon? Go, go! I cannot live without seeing her.
My horses will be here in an hour; one hour be-
tween me and love! How heavy this charcoal
fire smells. [Exit the page. Lies down on a couch
beside brazier.]

[Enter veea in a black cloak.]

VEEA. Asleep! God, thou art good! Who
shall deliver him from my hands now? This is

ACT IV] VERA; OR, THE NIHIIISTS

509

he! The democrat who would make himself a
king, the republican who hath worn a crown, the
traitor who hath lied to us. Michael was right.
He loved not the people. He loved me not.
[Bends over him.] Oh, why should such deadly
poison lie in such sweet lips? Was there not gold
enough in his hair before, that he should tarnish
it with this crown? But my day has come now:
the day of the people, of liberty, has come!
Your day, my brother, has come! Though I have
strangled whatever nature is in me, I did not think
it had been so easy to kill. One blow and it is
over, and I can wash my hands in water after-
wards, I can wash my hands afterwards. Come,
I shall save Russia. I have sworn it. [Raises
dagger to strike.]

CZAR [Starting up, seizes her by both ha7ids].
Vera, you here! My dream was no dream at all.
Why have you left me three days alone, when I
most needed you? 0 God, you think I am a
traitor, a liar, a king? I am, for love of you.
Vera, it was for you I broke my oath and wear
my father's crown. I would lay at your feet this
mighty Russia, which you and I have loved so
well; would give you this earth as a footstool! set
this crown on your head. The people will love
us. We will rule them by love, as a father rules
his children. There shall be liberty in Russia
for every man to think as his heart bids him;
liberty for men to speak as they think. I have
banished the wolves that preyed on us; I have
brought back your brother from Siberia; I have

510

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

opened the blackened jaws of the mine. The
courier is already on his way; within a week
Dmitri and all those with him will be back in
their own land. The people shall be free — are free
now — and you and I, Emperor and Empress of
this mighty realm, will walk among them openly,
in love. When they gave me this crown first, I
would have flung it back to them, had it not
been for you, Vera. 0 God! It is men's custom
in Russia to bring gifts to those they love. I
said, I will bring to the woman I love a people,
an empire, a world! Vera, it is for you, for you
alone, I kept this crown; for you alone I am a
king. Oh, I have loved you better than my oath!
Why will you not speak to me? You love me
not! You love me not! You have come to warn
me of some plot against my life. What is life
worth to me without you? [conspirators mur-
mur outside.]

VERA. Oh, lost! lost! lost!

CZAR. Nay, you are safe here. It wants five
hours still of dawn. To-morrow, I will lead you
forth to the whole people

VERA. To-morrow !

CZAR. Will crown you with my own hands as
Empress in that great cathedral which my fathers
built.

VERA [Loosens her hands violently from him, and
starts up]. I am a Nihilist! I cannot wear a
crown!

CZAR [Falls at her feet], I am no king now. I
am only a boy who has loved you better than h]»

ACT IV] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

511

honour, better than his oath. For love of the
people I would have been a patriot. For love of
you I have been a traitor. Let us go forth to-
gether, we will live amongst the common people.
I am no king. I will toil for you like the peasant
or the serf. Oh, love me a little too! [conspira-
tors murmur outside.]

VERA {Clutching dagger]. To strangle whatever
nature is in me, neither to love nor to be loved,

neither to pity nor Oh, I am a woman! God

help me, I am a woman! 0 Alexis! I too have
broken my oath ; I am a traitor. I love. Oh, do
not speak, do not speak — [Kisses his lips] — the
first, the last time. [He clasps her in his arms;
they sit on the couch together.]

CZAR. I could die now.

VERA. What does death do in thy lips? Thy
life, thy love are enemies of death. Speak not
of death. Not yet, not yet.

CZAR. I know not why death came into my
heart. Perchance the cup of life is filled too full
of pleasure to endure. This is our wedding
night.

VERA. Our wedding night!

CZAR. And if death came himself, methinks
that I could kiss his pallid mouth, and suck sweet
poison from it.

VERA. Our wedding night! Nay, nay. Death
should not sit at the feast. There is no such thing
as death.

CZAR. There shall not be for us. [conspira-
tors murmur outside.]

512

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

VEEA. What is that? Did you not hear some-
thing?

CZAE. Only your voice, that fowler’s note
which lures my heart away like a poor bird upon
the limed twig.

VEEA. Methought that some one laughed.

CZAR. It was but the wind and rain; the night
is full of storm, [conspiratoes murmur outside.]

VERA. It should be so indeed. Oh, where are
your guards? where are your guards?

CZAR. Where should they be but at home? I
shall not hve pent round by sword and steel.
The love of a people is a king’s best body-guard.

VERA. The love of a people!

CZAR. Sweet, you are safe here. Nothing can
harm you here. 0 love, I knew you trusted me!
You said you would have trust.

VERA. I have had trust. 0 love, the past
seems but some dull grey dream from which our
souls have wakened. This is life at last.

CZAR. Ay, life at last.

VERA. Our wedding night! Oh, let me drink
my fill of love to-night! Nay, sweet, not yet, not
yet. How still it is, and yet methinks the air is
full of music. It is some nightingale, who, weary-
ing of the south, has come to sing in this bleak
north to lovers such as we. It is the nightingale.
Dost thou not hear it?

CZAR. Oh, sweet, mine ears are clogged to all
sweet sounds save thine own voice, and mine eyes
blinded to all sights but thee, else had I heard
that nightingale, and seen the golden-vestured

ACT IT] VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS

513

morning sun itself steal from its sombre east
before its time for jealousy that thou art twice
as fair.

VERA. Yet would that thou hadst heard the
nightingale. Methinks that bird will never sing
again.

CZAR. It is no nightingale. ’Tis love himself
singing for very ecstasy of joy that thou art
changed into his votaress. [Clock begins striking
twelve.] Oh, listen, sweet, it is the lover’s hour.
Come, let us stand without, and hear the mid-
night answered from tower to tower over the
wide white town. Our wedding night! What is
that? What is that?

[Loud murmurs of conspirators in the street.]

VERA [Breaks from him and rushes across the
stage]. The wedding guests arc here already!
4y, you shall have your sign! [Stabs herself.]
You shall have your sign! [Rushes to the vrindow.]

CZAR [Intercepts her by rushing between her and
window, and snatches dagger out of her hand]. Vera!

VERA [Clinging to Mm]. Give me back the dag-
ger! Give me back the dagger! There are men
in the street who seek your life! Your guards
have betrayed you! This bloody dagger is the
signal that you are dead, [conspirators begin to
shout below in the street.] Oh, there is not a mo-
ment to be lost! Throw it out! Throw it out!
Nothing can save me now; this dagger is poisoned !
I feel death already in my heart.

CZAR [Holding dagger out of her reach]. Death
is in my heart too; we shall die together.

514

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

YEHA. Oh, love! love! love! be merciful to me!
The wolves are hot upon you! you must live for
liberty, for Russia, for me! Oh, you do not love
me! You offered me an empire once! Give me
this dagger now! Oh, you are cruel! My life for
yours! What does it matter? [Loud shouts in Ok
street, ‘ veea! veka! To the rescue! To the res-
cue! ’]

CZAB. The bitterness of death is past for me.

VERA. Oh, they are breaking in below! See!
The bloody man behind you! [czar turns round
for an instant.] Ah! [vera snatches dagger and
flings it out of window.]

CONSPS. [Below]. Long live the people!

CZAR. What have you done?

VERA, I have saved Russia. [Dies.]

TABLEAU

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

Dramatis Personae

SIMONE GESSO (Duke of Padua).

BEATRICE (hia Wife).

ANDREA POLLAIUOLO (Cardinal of Padua).

MAFFIO PETRUCCI '

JEPPO VITELOZZO V (of the Ducal Household).
TADDEO BARDI
GUIDO FERRANTI.

ASCANIO CRISTOFANO (his Friend).

COUNT MORANZONE.

BERNARDO CAVALCANTI (Chief Justiciar of Padua).
HUGO (the Public Executioner).

LUCIA (a Tirewoman).

Serving-Men, Burghers, Soldiers, Falconers, Monies^
elc.

Scene — Padua

Time — Latter half of the sixteenth century.

Act I Market place at Padua.

Act II Room in the Ducal Palace.

Act III Corridor in the Ducal Palace.

Act IV Hall of Justice.

Act V Prison.

617

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

ACT I

Market-Place at Padua, Noon

In the background the Cathedral, a building of
black and white marble in the Romanesque style.
Marble steps lead up to the great door; at foot of
these two massive stone lions. Houses on eithef
side, with bright-coloured awnings at the windows,
and stone arcades along the front. To right a foun-
tain, — a Triton in antique bronze, blowing his conch
ai the entrance of his cave. Round the basin runs a
stone bench. The Cathedral bells are ringing, and
the citizens, men and women and children, are
flocking into Church.

GUIDO FERRANTI and ASCANIO CRISTOFANO

ASCANio. Sure as Pm a man with the breath
o' life in me, FlI not budge a step further; else
shall I have no breath left, — to curse withal.
'Od's malison on this jack o' lantern dance, say I!
[Sits down on the stone bench.]

GUIDO. Nay, lad! it must be here. [Accosts a
passer-by, doffing his cap.] Pardon me, Sir, is this
the Market-Place, and yonder the Church of
Santa Croce? [Citizen nods.] Thanks, good Sir.

ASCANIO. Well?

519

520

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

GUIDO. Yea I this is the spot.

ASCANio. r faith, I would ’twere any other;
there’s never a tavern in sight.

GUIDO [Takes a letter from his pocket and reads].
“Time — noon; town — Padua; place — the Market
square; day — St. Philip’s.”

ASCANIO. And the man? How says it we are
to know him?

GUIDO [Reads]. “I shall wear a violet cloak,
with a silver falcon embroidered on the shoulder,”
— gay apparel, Ascanio!

ASCANIO. I’d liefer have my leathern jerkin. And
dost think he will give thee tidings of thy father?

GUIDO. Surely. Dost not remember? 'tis scarce
a week agone, I was in the vineyard, at the comer
by the high-road, just where the goats aye break
in, when a man came riding by who asked me if
my name was Guido. Then he gave me this letter
signed “Thy father’s Friend,” bidding me come
hither to-day, if I would Icam the secret of my
birth. I have alway deemed old Pietro my uncle,
but the letter said ’twas not so, — that I had but
been entrusted to his charge by one whom he had
never seen again.

ASCANIO. Dost not know then who thy father
was?

GUIDO. No.

ASCANIO. Hast no recollection at all of him?

GUIDO. None, Ascanio, none.

ASCANIO [iMughing]. Ah! then he can never
have fetched thee so many a shrewd clout o’ the
head as mine did me!

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

521

GUIDO [Smiling]. Didst never deserve 'em, of
course, dear lad !

ASCANio. Never! that was just the sin and
shame o' t. Not once did conscience round me I was
guilty, never once! — What hour did he appoint?

GUIDO. Noon. [Cathedral clock strikes.]

ASCANIO. 'Tis that now, and our man is not
here. I don't believe in him, Guido : I misdoubt
'tis some wench hath cast soft eyes on thee. I
have companied thee from Perugia to Padua, —
now, o' my life, thou shalt company me to the
nearest tavern. [Rises.] By the great gods of
appetite, Guido, Pm as sharp-set for meat as a
widow for a husband, as weary of walking as a
maid of moralising, and as dry as a sermon.
Come, Guido! why stand there a-gape at nothing,
like the village idiot, would peep into his own
pate! Thy man is not coming.

GUIDO. I fear thou'rt i' the right. Ha! [Just
as he is preparing to go off ivith ascanio, count
MORANZONE appears in a violet cloak having a silver
falcon embroidered on the shoulder. He goes up
stage to the Cathedral; as he is on the point of enter-
ing the church, guido springs up the steps and inter-
cepts him.]

MORANZONE. Guido Ferranti, thou art well
true to time.

GUIDO. Then my father lives?

MORANZONE. Yea, he lives — in thee. Dost fa-
vour him in features, bearing, gait and all outward
semblance; I pray thou be his match in mind and
mettle.

fiSS2

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

6TJID0. Tell me of my father! For this mo-
ment only have I lived.

MORANZONE. We should be alone.

GUIDO. This is my trustiest friend, who for the
love he bears me hath come with me to Padua;
there is no secret we share not as brothers.

MORANZONE. One secret thou must not confide
to him.

GUIDO [To ASCANio]. Retum in an hour’s time.
He knows not there is naught in this world can
dim the flawless mirror of our love. For one hour
farewell !

ASCANIO. Talk not with him, he hath the evil
eye.

GUIDO [Laughing], No, no, I have no doubt he
will tell me I am a great lord in Italy, and long
and merry days await us. Leave us for an hom,
dear lad! [Exit ascanio.] Now tell me of my
father. [Sits down on the stone bench.] Was he
tall? This at any rate I know for sure, he sat his
horse right gallantly. His hair was dark? — ^may-
hap a red gold, like the glint of fire? Was his
voice soft and low? Doughty warriors sometimes
have a gentle ring of voice. Or was it like the
battle clarion that shatters the foemen’s array?
Rode he alone to war, or with a brave company
of squires and valorous riders? Nay! I feel oft
as if the blood of Kings pulsed through my veins.
Was he a King?

MORANZONE. He was the kingliest of men.

GUIDO [Proudly]. So, when last you saw him,
my noble father towered high above the rest.

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

523

MORANZONE. High abovc others’ heads — [Going
up to GUIDO and laying a hand on his shoulder]
there on the scaffold, where the headsman’s axe
lay ready for his neck.

GUIDO [Starting back]. Who art thou, dreadful
man, who like a raven, with its ghostly cry, comest
from the grave to bring this hapless news?

MORANZONE. Men call me here the Count
Moranzone, Lord of a poor mountain hold, a few
starveling acres and a scanty crew of henchmen.
Yet was I once a Noble of Parma’s noblest, — nay!
more than that, I was thy father’s friend.

GUIDO [Seizing the covNT’&hand]. Tellmeof him.

MORANZONE. Thou art Lorenzo’s son, the great
Duke, whose banner waved o’er many a hard-
fought field, in battle with the Saracen infidels.
He was Prince of Parma and Duke of all the fair
realm of Lombardy up to the walls of Florence;
yea! Florence itself was tributary to him.

GUIDO. Come to his death.

MORANZONE. Thou’lt hear that soon enough!
He was at war, — oh! noble warrior-lion that in
all Italy would never suffer wrong to be, — he led
the fine flower of chivalry against the Lord of
Rimini, that foul adulterer Giovanni Malatesta —
whom God requite — and was lured by him into a
traitorous ambush, bound in caitiff fetters and
like a low-lived rascal, like a basebora knave,
butchered by the common headsman before all
men’s eyes.

GUIDO [Grasping his dagger]. And Malatesta
lives?

524

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MORANZONE. No, he is dead.

GUIDO. Dead, you say? Oh! over-hasty
Death, hadst but tarried a short while for me, I
would have done thine office for thee.

MORANZONE [Clasping the young man’s wrist],
’Tis not too late! The man who sold him is yet
alive.

GUIDO. Sold him? my father was sold?

MORANZONE. Yea! sold like a head of bestial;
bartered and betrayed for pelf, higgled and chaf-
fered for in secret bargain, by one he thought the
paragon of frercs, — his bosom friend in whom he
trusted, whose love he had knitted to himself by
countless benefits. Who on this earth sows kind-
ness reaps only base ingratitude.

GUIDO. So thou’rt alive, false Judas? Well, I
will make the wide world thy Potter’s field, — ^go,
buy it forthwith, for verily thou must hang there.

MORANZONE. Judas, thou saidst? Yea! Judas
in his unfaith, but he was craftier than Judas was;
thirty pieces of silver he deemed too scant a price.

GUIDO. And what gat he for my father’s head?

MORANZONE. What gat he? Wiy, cities, fiefs
and principalities, — vineyards and broad lands.

GUIDO. Whereof he shall keep but six poor feet
of soil, to rot in. Where is he, the accursed villain,
tell me where? Show me the fellow, and though he
come steel clad from head to foot, armoured and
mailed in panoply, yea! guarded by a thousand
horsemen, — yet will I pierce the bulwark of their
spears and see his black heart’s blood distil its
latest drop from off my blade. I will kill him.

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

625

MOHANZONE [Speaking deliberately]. Fool, dost
call that revenge? Death is the final lot of all us
mortals, and if he come suddenly, why, then ’tis
so much gained! [Goes close up to guido.] Thy
father was sold, sold, — be that thy cue; sell thou
the seller in thy turn! Thou must to Court, sit
at the same board with him, eat of the same bread.

GUIDO. Ah, bitter bread!

MORANZONE. Thy palate is too nice ; vengeance
will sweeten the taste. O’ nights thou must be his
boon-companion at the revel, his closest friend,
that he may cling confidingly to thee and tell thee
all his wiles. Laugh, if he asks thy merriment;
runs his humour to melancholy, don mourning
weeds! When the time is ripe — [guido grasps his
sword]. No, no, I cannot trust thee; thy hot-
blooded youth and unbridled temper will not wait
for this slow satisfaction, but will shipwreck our
schemes of vengeance.

GUIDO. You know me not. Tell me his name,
and I will follow your counsel in all ways.

MORANZONE. When the time is fully come, the
victim lulled asleep, the hour favourable, I will
send thee secretly a sign by a speedy messenger.

GUIDO. Speak, how is the man to die?

MORANZONE. That night thou must clamber to
his sleeping room, — note it well !

GUIDO. Nay, have no fear.

MORANZONE. I know not if crime-laden folk do
sleep; but if he sleeps, then wake him first, and
grip him by the throat — so, dost understand? Tell
him of what blood thou art, of whose begetting,

526

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

and the motive of thy vengeance; then let him
cringe to thee, cringe on his bended knees. Let
him proffer thee his hoarded treasures for his life,
and when he sacrifices all his fortime, say this; ‘ I
want not gold, mercy I know not,’ — and straight-
way to thy task. Now swear, thou wilt not slay
him ere I give the word; else I return home again
and leave thee yet in ignorance and thy father
unavenged.

GUIDO. I swear by my father’s battle-flag

MORANZONE. The headsman tore it to tatters
in the open Market-square.

GUIDO. By my father’s grave then

MORANZONE. Grave! What grave? Thy gallant
father hath no grave. His dust was scattered to
the winds, his ashes borne by the breeze about the
streets like chaff that pricks the eyes of beggar-
men. His head was spiked before the gaol, tricked
out in mockery with a paper crown, that the scur-
rilous rabble of the town might whet their ribald
tongues at his expense.

GUIDO. Was all this so? Then by my father’s
spotless name, by his shameful, hideous death, by
his friend’s abject villainy, — these things at least
remain, — by these I swear I will not assail his life
until you bid me , — then God help his soul; he shall
die, die worse than a dog’s death! And now, the
sign?

MORANZONE. This dagger, thy father’s dagger,
boy.

GUIDO. Oh! let me see it close. Ah! now I re-
member me how my so-called uncle, good old man.

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

527

spake of a cloak, — as a babe I was wrapped in it, —
whereon were woven in gold two leopards such as
these; in steel as here they like me better, — they’re
fitter for my purpose. Speak, Sir, have you no
word to give me from my father?

MOHANZONE. Thou nevcr saw'st thy father —
After his false friend liad bewrayed him, I only
escaped of all his liegemen to carry the fatal news
to Parma to tlie Duchess.

GUIDO. Tell me of my mother.

MOEANZONE. Thy mother — she was a very
Saint of purity — fell into a swoon at the tidings,
was seized with pangs of childbirth ’fore the time
— she had been wed but seven short months — and
brought thee prematurely into the world. Then
fled her soul heavenward, to welcome thy father
at the gate of Paradise.

GUIDO. The mother dead, the father bought
and sold ! Meseems as though I stood upon a be-
leaguered rampart, and messenger after messenger
came to bring me Job’s tidings. Prithee, let me
get my breath; my ears arc dinned with ill news.

MOEANZONE. When thy mother died, in fear of
foes I spread the report that thou too wast dead;
then I spirited thee away, and carried thee to a
trusty vassal, who dwells at Perugia; thou know’st
the rest.

GUIDO. Saw you ever my father again?

MOEANZONE. Yea, once; clad in the mean garb
of a vinedresser, I crept to Rimini.

GUIDO. Oh noble heart!

MOEANZONE . At Rimini everything is to be had

628

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

for gold — I bribed his gaolers. When thy father
learned that a son was born to him, his eye flashed
clear beneath his brows, like distant lightning on
the main. He gripped my hand, and made me
swear to rear thee worthily of him, — and I took
the oath. Do thou revenge his death on the false
friend!

GUIDO. For my dead father’s sake, I thank
thee. . . . Now his name?

MORANZONE. How thou rcmind’st me of him!
in every lineament thou’rt his fellow.

GUIDO. The villain’s name !

MORANZONE. Thou’lt learn it soon; the Duke
is e’en now on his way hither, with his Court.

GUIDO. What of that? Tell me his name!

MORANZONE. Think’st not they make a gallant
band of worshipful and stalwart gentlemen?

GUIDO. The name. Count!

[The DUKE OF PADUA enters, attended by count
BARD i, MAFFio PETRucci, and Other noblemen of his
Court.]

MORANZONE [Quickly]. The man to whom I
kneel is thy father’s murderer. Mark him !

GUIDO [Reaching for the dagger]. The Duke !

MORANZONE. Keep thy fingers from the steel.
What, dost forget so soon? — [Kneels to the duke.]
My noble Lord!

DUKE. Greeting to ye, Moranzone; ’tis long
since we have seen you at Padua. We were hunt-
ing yesterday around your Castle — you call it a
Castle, yon chilly house wherein you sit mumbling
o’er your beads, a-making your confession like a

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

629

good old man. I am never like to be a good old
man; God would be outwearied with the confession
of my sins ! [Sees guido, and draws hack.] Who is
that yonder?

MORANZONE. My sistcr’s son, your Grace! just
come of age for bearing arms; he would fain tarry
a while at Court.

DUKE [SHU gazing at guido]. How is he called?

MOKANZONE. Guido Ferranti, my Lord!

DUKE. Of what city?

MORANZONE. He springs from Mantua.

DUKE [Approaching guido]. Thou hast the eyes
of one I knew, — but he died childless. Thou
would’st serve with me? well, we lack soldiers. —
Art honest, sirrah? Then make no truck with
thine honesty, keep it for thyself. At Padua hon-
esty is deemed ostentation; so ’tis clean out o’
fashion there. Look, see these lords, they smell
of amber and perfumes. . . .

bardi [Aside]. For sure the poisoned shaft is
aimed at us.

DUKE. Every man thou see’st hath his price;
albeit — to pose as incorruptible — some set it high.

BARDI. I thought as much.

DUKE. So give up honesty. Singularity is no
profitable quality, albeit in these stale, flat, in-
sipid days, the very most singular thing a man
can do is to have wits, for then the rabble jeers
him. The rabble ! scorn thou it as I do. Its praise
is froth, and I count its windy favour accordingly.
Popularity is the one insult I have never had to
abide.

530

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

MAFFio [Aside], He hath had no lack of hate,
an that be what he craves.

DUKE. Be crafty ; in thy dealings with the world,
curb thine impetiiousness! Think twice! The
first impulse is oftenest good-natured.

GUIDO [Aside]. On his lips sits a toad that dis-
tils its venom thence.

DUKE. Give heed to foes, else will the world
think light of thee; Tis in its eyes a proof of power.
Yet show a smiling mask of friendship to every
man, till what time thou hast him safe in hand.
Then crush him !

GUIDO [Aside]. Oh, wise Philosopher! Art dig-
ging a deep grave for thine own self.

MORANZONE [To GUiDOb Dost mark his words?

GUIDO. Yea, only too well!

DUKE. And never be over scrupulous; the hand
that is clean is empty, and offers a pitiful show.
Would’st have the lion's share in life's good
things, why, don the fox's skin; it will bestead
thee well. 'Tis a coat that fits every man, fat
and lean, great and small; who makes thee such
a coat, is a tailor who will never lack for cus-
tomers.

GUIDO. Your Grace, I will remember.

DUKE. Good, my lad, good! I care not to have
about me shallow fools, that mete out the gold of
life with niggling scruples, and shifting, shuffling,
come to shipwreck; failure is the one fault I never
know. Let me have men about me. Conscience
is but a name that dastard cowardice scrawls on
the shield. Dost understand me, sirrah?

ACT il THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

531

GTJIDO. Yea, your Grace, in all ways will I
obey your golden rule.

MAFFio. Never have I seen your Grace so much
inclined for preaching; the Cardinal must have
an eye to his laurels.

DUKE. My gospel is practised by the world,
his only talked about. I think little of the Car-
dinal; he must needs be a pious churchman that
will deny his tediousness. Well, young sir, we
number thee to-day amongst our Household.
[Reaches guido his hand io kiss.] guido starts back
in horror, but at a warning gesture from count
MOEANZONE, knecls and kisses the duke’s hand.]
Henceforward thou must be accoutred as beseems
om: Court and thine own honour.

GUIDO. From my heart I thank your Grace.

DUKE. Tell me again; what was your name?

GUIDO. Guido Ferranti, my Lord.

DUKE. From Mantua? Have a care for your
wives, when so trim a gallant comes to Padua.
Yea, you do well to laugh. Count Bardi, I know
right well how merry-hearted is the man at whose
hearth sits an uncomely wife.

MAFFIO. By leave, your Grace, the dames of
Padua are above suspicion.

DUKE. What, are all foul-featured? Come, the
Cardinal hath long been waiting our pious con-
sort; why, folk should clip him both his sermon
and his beard. Will you with us. Count, and help
us hear a homily of good St. Jerome.

MORANZONE [Bowing]. Alas, my Lord. . . .

DUKE [Interrupting], Spare your excuses;

632 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i

you would as lief miss the Mass. Now follow
all.

[Disappears tvith Ms train into the Cathedral.]

GUIDO [After a pause]. My father was the
Duke’s victim, and I kissed his hand !

MORANZONE. Oft do it in the future!

GUIDO. Must I?

MORANZONE. Yea! thou hast sworn an oath.

GUIDO. My oath doth make me hard as granite.

MORANZONE. Farewell, my son; thou see’st me
no more till the time is ripe.

GUIDO. I implore you, come soon.

MORANZONE. I will be to hand, when the time
is ripe; be ready!

GUIDO. Have no fear.

MORANZONE. Yonder comes thy friend. Banish
him from Padua, and from thy heart.

GUIDO. Yea, from Padua; from my heart, no.

MORANZONE. Nay, it must needs be. I will not
leave thee, till thou hast done it.

GUIDO. Do you grudge me every friend?

MORANZONE. Revenge be thy friend, thou
need’st no other.

GUIDO. Well, well, so be it!

AscANio [ascanio cristofano enters]. Guido,
lad, I have outdone thee every way. I have drunk
a flask of wine, eaten a pasty and kissed the serv-
ing-wench. Thou look’st as down i’ the mouth
as a schoolboy that cannot buy him apples, or a
potwalloper that cannot sell his vote. What is
the news, Guido?

GUIDO. Ascanio, we two must part.

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

533

ASCANio. That may be something new, but
’tis not true.

GUIDO. Too true, Ascanio; thou must now
begone, and should’st never see my face again.

ASCANIO. No, no; thou dost not know me
really, Guido mine. I am but a lowly farmer’s
son, ill practised in the use of courtly manners;
so I can still, an thou art of noble lineage, be thy
henchman. I will guard thee truer than an hire-
ling doth.

GUIDO [Seizing his hand], Ascanio! [Sees
moranzone’s menacing look and drops ascanio’s
hand.] It cannot be.

ASCANIO. Hath it come to this with thee?
Why, methought the friendship of the antique
world was not yet dead, that the Roman exemplar
might in our flat, stale and unheroic days yet find
its worthy counterpart. By the love that sleeps
peaceful as the summer seas, what fortune hath
betid thee? May I share it?

GUIDO. Share it?

ASCANIO. Yea, share it.

GUIDO. Never, never.

ASCANIO. Hath an heritage come to thee, — ^a
Castle with strong towers, and gold to boot?

GUIDO [BUlerly], Yea, I have entered on mine
heritage. Oh, bloody legacy, horrid heirship!
Verily must I guard it anxiously like any miser,
and keep all for myself! Wherefore, I prithee,
leave me now.

ASCANIO. What, must we never more sit hand
in hand, as once we used, buried so deep in an old

534

THE PLAYS OF OSCAE WILDE (act i

tome of chivalry that curly head touched curly
head? must we never more play truant, and away
to follow the huntsman through the Autumn
woods, and watch the falcons shake off their
j^es, as puss breaks from the covert?

GUIDO. Never more.

ASCANio. Must I leave thee then without one
fond word?

GUIDO. Leave me, and my love go with thee.

ASCANIO. Unknightly, churlish thy behaviour!

GUIDO. Unknightly, churlish — ^yea, an thou
wilt. . . . Why waste more useless words? Fare
thee well !

ASCANIO. Hast thou no word of kindly parting,
Guido?

GUIDO. No. The past all lies behind me like a
dream. To-day a new life begins. Farewell!

ASCANIO. Farewell! [Exit slowly and reluctantly.]

GUIDO. Well, are you content? Saw you not
how I drave from me my friend and staunchest
comrade, as he were a kitchen scullion? Oh, to
think I could treat him so! — ^Are you now content?

MOBANZONE. I am content. But now my way
is back to my desert fortalice in the hills. Forget
not the token, — thy father’s dagger. When as I
send it thee, fulfil thy task! '

GUIDO. Be sure I will. [Exit count moban-
ZONE.] Oh, Everliving God, should my soul yet
retain some trace of human nature, — ^kindly ruth
or soft sympathy, — wither, consume, destroy it!
An Thou dost not, I must myself cut compassion
with cold steel from out my heart, I must smother

ACT l]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

535

pity in my sleep o’ nights, that it speak not within
me. Revenge for me! Revenge, be thou my
bedfellow, my bosom friend, sit thou by me, ride
with me to the chase; if I am a- weary, sing me
sweet songs, if I am light-hearted, make merry
with me, and if I dream, whisper in mine ear the
hideous story of my father’s murder — Said I
murder? [Draws his dagger.] Then hear me,
God of Vengeance! Oh, God, Thou God which
punishest all perjury, may Thine angels record
this my solemn oath in flames of fire, that till the
day I expiate my father’s death with blood, I will
forego the noble ties of honourable friendship, the
noble joys of comradeship, the union of loving
souls and heartfelt gratitude, — yea, more, from
this hour forth I do foreswear the love of women
and that hollow bauble men call female loveliness
— [The organ peals out in the Cathedral. Beneath
a canopy of cloth of silver borne by four pages in
scarlet, the duchess of padua descends the Church
steps; as she passes guido, their eyes meet for an
instant, and as she leaves the stage, she turns to look
back at the young man, whose dagger drops from his
hand.] Say, who is yonder lady?

BURGHER. The Duchess of Padua!

End op Act I

ACT II

A State Apahtment in the Duke’s Castle

The walls are hung with tapestry representing the
festal procession of Venus and the Graces. A wide
central door leads onto a loggia with pillars of red
marble, affording a view over Padua. To right, a
great canopy, with three thrones, one being higher
than the others. The ceiling is deeoraied with long
gilt rays to imitate sunbeams. Furniture of the
period, — seats covered in gilt and embossed leather,
buffets set out with gold and silver plate, and chests
painted with mythological scenes. A throng of
Courtiers stands outside on the loggia, looking into
the street below, from which ascends the roaring of a
disorderly rabble, and shouts of “Down with the
DUKE.” After a short pause, enter the duke, very
calm. He leans on fehranti’s arm, and is accom-
panied by the cardinal. The outcries continue
unabated.

duke. No, Cardinal, I have had full enough of
her; she is worse than wicked, — good.

MATTio [Excitedly]. Two thousand folk. High
ness, are come together, clamouring more inso
lently every moment.

duke. Pshaw! they but offend their lungs!
Who brawls so loud, my lords, will do us no hurt;
the only foes I fear are the silent ones. [Howls
from the crowd.] Look you. Cardinal, how my

536

ACT II] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

537

people loves me; they offer me a serenade, I had
liefer hear it than any soft complaining of the lute.
Is't not ecstasy to hearken to it? [Renetved out-
cry,] Alas! they be a trifle out of tune; there-
fore must my men shoot at them. A cats’ concert
I cannot brook. Petrucci, go tell the Captain of
our Guard below to clear the Square. Art hard
o’ hearing? Do what I wish. [Exit petrucci.]

CARDINAL. I do besccch your Grace, give ear
to their distress.

DUKE [Seating himself on the throne]. Why, yes,
the pears all this year have never been so fine as
of yore. I pray you pardon, Cardinal, I thought
you spake of pears. [A shout of joy from the popu-
lace.] What means that?

GUIDO [Rushes to the window]. The Duchess is
below in the Square, — spacing betwixt the soldiers
and the folk, to stay the firing.

DUKE. The Foul Fiend have her!

GUIDO [Still at the window]. Now hath she en-
tered the Palace, — a dozen burghers after her.

DUKE [Springing up]. The Duchess, by Heaven I
she doth presume too far.

BARDi. She is here.

DUKE. Shut yonder door; the morning air
strikes cold. [The door onto the loggia henceforth
remains closed. — The duchess enters, followed by a
band of shabbily clad burghers.]

BEATRICE [Falling on her knees]. I do beseech
your Grace; hear our petition.

DUKE. Am I a tailor, lady wife, that you appear
before me with so ragged a crew?

538

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Iact n

BEATRICE. Their rags make manifest, me-
thought, their distress more clearer than I can
myself.

DUKE. Wherein standeth their distress?

BEATRICE. Ah, my good lord, day by day they
do endure such dole as neither you nor I nor ever
a one of all these noble lords have ever used to
have the faintest thought of. Why, the very
bread they cat is baked of half rotten husks.

FIRST BURGHER. Yea, nothing but husks.

DUKE. A fine nourishing food; I give it my
own nags.

BEATRICE [Persisting]. And the water that
flows into the town cisterns is corrupted by the
breach of the aqueduct to foul swamps and miry
pools.

DUKE. Drink wine ; water is most unwholesome.

SECOND BURGHER. Ah, but, youT Grace, the
tolls are grown so high that be levied at the city
gate that wine is not for us.

DUKE. Then commend the tolls, seeing they
keep you sober.

BEATRICE. Think how we flaunt in pomp and
splendour here, and lack naught that luxury and
wealth can crave, with hosts of servants to obey
our every nod. Whiles through their sunless lanes
slinks haggard misery, and with sharp knife
stealthily and noiselessly slits the little children’s
throats.

THIRD BURGHER. Yea verily, so ’tis; my pretty
lad died -yesterday of hunger. He was six years
old; I am so poor I cannot bury him.

ACT nl THE DUCHESS OF PADUA 539

DUKE. Art poor? then dost not feel happy to
say as much? Why, poverty is a Christian virtue;
[To the cardinal] is’t not so? You, Cardinal, I
know have fat livings, tythes and lands, — that
make you ready enow to preach voluntary poverty.

BEATRICE. My noble Duke, my husband, be
pitiful! Whiles we sit here in proud palaces with
pillared porticoes to guard us from the sun, with
walls and roofs to keep out the winter’s cold,
there’s many a burgher here in Padua lives in so
vile a hole that rain and snow and blustering wind
are fellow lodgers with him. Others sleep of
autumn nights under the arches of the city
bridges, till the damp mists stiffen their limbs, and

fever comes, and then

DUKE. — they are safe hid in Abraham’s
bosom. Them that be so wretched here below,
I send ’em up to Heaven. And do they ever
thank me for’t? [To the cardinal.] Stands it not
somewhere set down in Holy Writ, that every
man should be content with that state of life God
sends him? Why must I meddle therewith, and
botch the handiwork of all-wise Providence? It
hath decreed that some men starve, whiles others
feast. The world is none of my making.

FIRST BURGHER. The Duke hath a hard heart.
second burgher. Hist, neighbour, I hope the
Cardinal is going to speak for us.

cardinal. Verily ’tis a Christian duty to bear
poverty, for God doth appoint a rich reward
thereto; yet is it no less Christian to be charitable,
to still hunger and heal pain. Meseems here in

640

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

our city are many wrongs Your Highness’ wisdom
should reform.

FIRST BURGHER. What is this ‘ ‘ reform ’ ’ ! What
means it, eh?

SECOND BURGHER. 'Faith! it means this, to let
all be as ’tis. I would have somewhat else.

DUKE. Reform I you. Cardinal, spake of reform?
In Germany lives a man called Luther, who would
fain reform your Roman Church. Well, have ye
not proclaimed him heretic, and hang not the
Church’s ban and interdict over his head?

CARDINAL [Starling up]. He hath lured the
flock from out the fold, — all we ask is that you
feed the sheep.

DUKE. I have shorn their fleece, so I may well
feed them. But the rebels — [The duchess raises
appealing hands].

first BURGHER. Hist! a word of pity, he will
grant us some boon.

SECOND BURGHER. Dost think so?

DUKE. For this ragged rabble that comes here
before me, — their mouths are swollen with
treason

THIRD BURGHER. Softly, my noble Duke; then
stop ’em with bread. We will be quiet enow then.

DUKE. Nay, but ye shall keep quiet, hungry or
full. My lords, so mutinous have grown the times,
the yokel scarce lifts his hat and fears no blows,
while the day labourer hustles the noble in the
open street. Now God hath appointed me for
scourge to this rout, to chastise them for their
sins.

ACT II] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

541

BEATRICE. By what right? Art Ihou so sinless?

DUKE. If virtue punish sin, ’tis naught; but let
sin chasten sin; then is God well pleased.

BEATRICE. Have you no awe of Heaven?

DUKE. Have I aught to fear? Man’s enemy,
am I not God’s friend? [To Ihe burghers.] Now,
my good, trusty men of Padua, anent the petition
of the Duchess, — to deny a boon to so fair an
advocate, were to lack love and courtesy, — I
promise this, to do something for your distress

FIRST BURGHER. Now is lic going to abolish
the tolls!

SECOND BURGHER. Or have them give us each a
loaf of bread!

DUKE. Next Sunday shall the Cardinal choose
for his sennon after the blessed Mass the text:
“how beautiful a thing it is to be obedient!”
[Murmurs from the burghers.]

FIRST BURGHER. That will not fill our bellies.

SECOND BURGHER. A scrmon is but a poor
sauce, an a man have nothing more.

BEATRICE. Poor folk, ye sec I have no weight
with the Duke; but get you to the Castle yard,
and my treasurer shall share amongst you an hun-
dred ducats from my chest, albeit gold is not al-
way over plentiful therein.

ALMONER. An hundred ducats is the whole sum
it holds.

BEATRICE. Give them what I have.

FIRST BURGHER. God keep the Duchess!

SECOND BURGHER. God keep her Graee!

BEATRICE. And every Monday morn bread

542

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

shall be given to them in need. [The bueghebs
bow themselves out.]

FIRST BURGHER [As he goes], God keep the
Duchess, say I again.

DUKE [Calling him back]. Come hither, fellow!
What is thy name?

FIRST BURGHER. Dominic, my Lord.

DUKE. A fine name! Prithee, why Dominic,
and no other?

FIRST BURGHER [Scratching his head]. Because
that I was born on St. George’s day.

DUKE. An excellent good reason! Here’s a
ducat for thee; now shout likewise, — God keep
the Duke!

FIRST BURGHER [Feebly]. God keep the Duke!

DUKE. Louder, fellow, louder!

FIRST BURGHER [A trifle louder]. God keep the
Duke!

DUKE. More gleefully, fellow; put more heart
in’t! See, here’s another ducat for thee.

FIRST BURGHER [Overjoyed]. God keep the Duke.

DUKE [Mockingly]. My lords, the love of this
simple fellow stirs me deeply. [Addressing the
BxrRQimB. roughly.] Begone, sirrahl [JSxif burgher,
bowing low.] This is the trick o’t to buy popular-
ity nowadays. Yea, we are naught, if we be not
democratical. [To the duchess.] So, gracious
lady, you stir up mutiny amongst our citizens,
and by your daily alms-giving have filched the
love o’ the common herd. I cannot suffer this.

BEATRICE [Casting a glance at guido]. You arc
in error, my Lord; they love me not.

ACT n] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

543

DUKE. I will not have you give bread to the
folk, only because they be hungry.

BEATRICE. The poor have unimpeachable
rights, — the right to pity and the right to mercy.

DUKE. Thou pratest to me of rights? And this
is the woman for whose sake I forewent my claim
to three of the fairest towns in Italy, Pisa, Genoa
and Oiwieto.

BEATRICE. Promised, my lord, but not ful-
filled! you broke your word, as alway.

DUKE. You do me wrong. Reasons of State
it was. . . .

BEATRICE. What cause of State can justify the
breach of plighted word?

DUKE. There is a forest nigh Pisa, yea, close
by the city, where wild-boars lurk ; when I prom-
ised Pisa to thy father, — the sanguine fool, — I had
forgot the fine sport there.

BEATRICE. The man that is foresworn in hon-
our, my lord, doth forget all.

DUKE. In Genoa, that is the place — yea, I am
sure on’t — they say red surmullet do swim in the
bay more plentiful than anywhere in Italy.
[Turning to one of his train.] You, my lord, you
seem a hearty trencherman, you can tell our
Duchess if ’tis true.

BEATRICE. And Orvieto?

DUKE [Yawning]. It hath slipped my remem-
brance, why I gave him not Orvieto, — ^in terms
of our covenant. Mayhap I felt not so disposed.
[Going up to the duchess.] Now, look about you.
Here you are alone. Back to France is many a

544

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

long dusty mile; and even there, your father
keeps at his Court a bare hundred paltry knights.
Hope’st yet for championship? Who of all these
lords, the noble cavaliers of Padua, stands true
to thee?

BEATRICE. Notone. [GViTyo starts forward, but
restrains himself.]

DUKE. And never will, so long as I am Duke
in Padua. Understand me, — I have had enow of
thy charitable ways; thou art my property, so do
what I bid. An ’tis my will to hold thee in the
house, my Palace here must be thy prison; and
if I will thou goest forth abroad, thou must from
morn till eve be free as air.

BEATRICE. What right have you . . .?

DUKE. The second Duchess once asked me that
same question; CRnst see her tomb in the Church
of good St. Bartholomew, carven of red marble, —
wondrous fine! Give me thine arm, Guido! My
lords, let us throw off our falcons at the midday
hour. Bethink you, you are alone here, noble lady.

[Exit DUKE, leaning on guido’s arm, and followed
by his retinue.]

BEATRICE [Looking after them]. Strange that
anyone, blameless to all seeming, doth love the
Duke, hangs on his lips, that foully poison eveiy
word, and shrinks not from him, as though bound
to his service! Well, what of it? it doth concern
me not. I stand alone, to love inaccessible. The
Duke saith well, I am alone, forlorn and disgraced
and belittled — did ever woman stand so all alone
as I? The wooer calls us pretty children, saith we

ACT II] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

645

be not fit to make a life for ourselves, and there-
fore doth ruin the life we had. What said I,
‘‘Wooers”? We are their goods and chattels,
their slaves; we are not so fondly fondled as the
dog that licks their hand, as the falcon on their
wrist. I said, “Wooers”? Nay, we be bought
and sold, our very body is so much pelf to them.
I wis it is poor woman's usual lot, — her life, mated
with a man she loves not, makes shipwreck on his
selfishness; but being usual, 'tis no less hard to
bear. Meseems I never yet heard a woman laugh,
laugh out of pure light-heartedness, — except one
that stood at night i' the public street — poor soul!
She had painted lips, a mask of joy to hide her
sorrow, and she laughed, — pray God I may never
laugh so. To die were better! [guido enters un-
observed from behind; the duchess throws herself
down before a figure of the Madonna,] Oh Holy
Maiy, with the sweet, wan look, ringed with
little angel heads that hover round thee, know'st
thou no succour for me? Oh Mother of God,
know'st thou no succour?

GUIDO. No, I can bear it no more. I must
speak to her, speak to my love. Am I, fair lady,
embraced in your prayer?

BEATRICE [Rising], Only unhappy souls need
piy intercession.

GUIDO. Then needs must I be one, for sure!

BEATRICE. Why so? Doth not the Duke do
thee honour enow? dost lack advancement at our
Court? 'Tis not within my power to give it thee;
mine own self, I have as good as no weight here.

M6

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

GUIDO. Of favour, your Grace, I have no lack
from the Duke, — whom my soul loathes worse
than hell, — I come on my knees to offer you true-
proven service unto death.

BEATRICE. Alackaday! I am fallen so low
in place, I can reward thee only with niggard
thanks.

GUIDO [Seizing her hand]. And not with love?
[The DUCHESS starts back, guido falls at her feet.]
Oh, dear Saint! Forgive me, I have been over
bold. Thy beauty sets my young blood glowing.
An my mouth but touch thy hand in lowly greet-
ing, leaps every nerve so fierce with passion, that
I fear no extremity of daring for to win thy love.
[Springs to his feet.] Bid me fare forth, and pluck
renown from out the lion’s jaws, — I will wrestle
with the Nemean monster in the desert wastes!
Toss into the throat of battle a riband, a flower, a
bit of tinsel, anything, that hath once touched
thee, I will bring it back to thee unscathed, in
combat with all the knights of Christendom!
Yea, more than that, bid me to scale the white
cliffs of mighty England, and from her presump-
tuous scutcheon will I blot out thy France’s lilies,
which England, yon lion of the seas, hath filched
from her.

Oh loved Beatrice I drive me not from thy side,
for the minutes creep past leaden-footed without
thee; though, an I look upon thy loveliness, the
(lours flit by like winged Mercuries, and the world
gleams all golden.

BEATRICE. I never dreamed I could be really

Acrn] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

547

loved. Dost truly love me so immeasurably as
thou dost declare?

GUIDO. Go, ask the sea-gull an she loves the
waves, ask the roses an they love the rain, ask the
lark, that will not sing before the break of dawn,
an she loves the day, — ^and then these be but empty
pictures, mere shadows of my love. ’Tis a fierce
fire that all the waters of the ocean caimot ex-
tinguish. — Give me a word!

BEATRICE. Scarce know I what I should say.

GUIDO. Say, thou lov’st me.

BEATRICE. Is that thy behest? And must it
be fulfilled forthwith? Yea, it might well be so,
an if I really loved thee; but if not, what am I
then to say?

GUIDO. An if thou lov’st me not, yet say thou
dost; the lie would be shamed to truth upon thy
tongue.

BEATRICE. Or should I remain for ever dumb?
Lovers, they say, are happiest, when they be in
doubt.

GUIDO. No ! doubt doth kill me ; and, must I die,
let me die of joy, and not of doubt. Oh, tell me, —
may 1 stay, or must I go?

BEATRICE. I would thou mightest neither stay
nor go. If thou dost stay, thou steal’st my love
from me ; and if thou goest, thou takest it away with
thee. An all the morning stars could sing, they
might not manifest the greatness of my love.
Guido, I love thee.

GUIDO [With (ndstr etched arms]. Oh, never stop,
— only by night, I thought once, sang the night-

648

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

ingale, — but if thou must be silent, let my lips
find thine, that make so sweet a sound.

BEATRICE. My lips do not yet give thee my
heart.

GUIDO. Dost thou steel that against me then?

BEATRICE. Ah, my love’s lord, ’tis mine no
longer; the first day I saw thee, I let my heart be
filched away by thee, — thief against my will, who
rashly brakest into my guarded treasure house and
stole away my jewel! Strange robbery, which
doth enrich thee, without thy knowing it, and
hath left me poorer, yet all so happy.

GUIDO [Embracing her]. Oh, my love, my love!
Hide not thy head so! Let me open the little scar-
let gates, that closed in music, dive after corals,
and I will win a richer booty than all the gold the
griffin guards in Armenia’s wilderness.

BEATRICE. Thou, Guido, art my lord, what I
possess is thine; what not, thy fancy lends me
lavishly, which doth squander your treasures as
they were a bauble. [Kisses him.]

GUIDO. How bold methinks I am to look at
you like this. The gentle violet lurks beneath
the leaf and fears to gaze at the great sun in
dread of so much brightness; yet have mine eyes,
presumptuous eyes! now grown so froward that
like twin fixed stars they gaze at thee unwinking,
rioting in thy loveliness.

BEATRICE. Dearest, would thou mightcst watch
me for aye! Thine eyes are polished mirrors; by
looking in them, I can see myself therein, and so
I know my likeness lives in thee.

ACT ii] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

549

GUIDO [Taking her in his arms]. Stay still, thou
heavenly orb, and make this hour eternal! [A
pause.]

BEATBiCB. Sit a little lower, yea just so,
that my fingers may slip through thy hair, that
thy face may be lifted like a cup to meet my
kiss.

Hast ever marked, if one unlock a long neglected
room, — heavy with dust and folded with stains of
mould, that foot of man hath not trod for years, —
take down the rusty bars from the windows and
throw wide the broken shutters, for to let the sun
stream in, — hast marked how the sun doth trans-
form each sooty flake of dust into a brilliant atom
of dancing gold? Mine heart is like to that long
empty hall, love glints gaily into it, and hath lent
all life its gold. Dost not think love is the whole
contents of life?

GUIDO. Yea, without love is life but an unhewn
block, lying in the quarry, till the carver’s hand
awake the god within. Without love life is dumb
as a common reed, that grows in marshes and by
river banks, and holds no music.

BEATRICE. Yet therefrom the minstrel Love
will cut a pipe, and draw forth music from it; so
Love charms melody from out each life. Say I
not true?

GUIDO. ’Tis women make it true. With pencil
and with chisel do men work, — the dyer’s son,
Paul Veronese, their great rival at Venice, who
painted God’s Magdalen, slim as a lily and as
white, mounting the Temple steps, and Raphael,

550

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

who painted divine Madonnas, divine in their
pure motherhood, — and yet are women thfc great-
est artists of this earth; they model men’s daily
life, which the greed of gold of our days doth de-
grade, and make it fair by love.

BEATRICE. Ah, Guido, I would that thou and I
were poor, — the poor, that love each other, are
so rich.

GUIDO. Say once more that thou lov’st me,
Beatrice.

BEATRICE [Lelling her fingers glide round his col-
lar]. How close the collar of thy doublet fits
about thy neck! [count moranzone looks in
through the door of the external corridor.]

GUIDO. Nay, tell me that thou lov’st me.

BEATRICE. I do remember, when as a child I
dwelt in my loved France at the Court at Fon-
tainebleau, the King wore such a collar.

GUIDO. But tell me that thou lov’st me!

BEATRICE [Jestingly]. The King of France was
an illustrious hero, yet was he not so kingly as
thou art. Why needs must I confess my love to
thee? [She takes his head between her hands and
lifts his face to hers.] Thou know’st I do belong
to thee for ever, with soul and body both! [SAe
kisses him, then suddenly notices moranzone and
springs up.] Ha, what is that? [moranzone dis-
appears.]

GUIDO. What, dearest?

BEATRICE. Methought I saw two eyes of flame
prying upon us through the doorway.

GUIDO. Nay, it was nothing. Only the sen-

ACT 111 THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

551

tinel’s shadow moved across the floor. [The
DUCHESS still stands staring at the window.] Twas
nothing, love.

BEATRICE. What now need trouble us, who
are in Love’s guard and keeping? ’Twere all in-
different to me, an if the world and its menial
backbiters should trample down and tread out
my life. They say the common flowers of the
field do shed a sweeter perfume, if they be trod
on, than if they bloom undisturbed, and many
plants, else scentless, diffuse only in death, when
they are broken and tom, the odours of Araby.
So is it with young lives, which daily stress is like
to crush; it doth express all their sweets and oft
heightens yet more their charm. Love is the
crown of life; think’st not ’tis so?

GUIDO. Come, let us sport and sing! I feel I
fain would sing now.

BEATRICE. Nay, hush! At times it seems as
though all existence were narrowed to one single
transport of delight, and joy’s very intensity laid
a seal upon the lips.

GUIDO. Let my lips break this seal! Thou
lov’st me, Beatrice?

BEATRICE. Is’t not strange, that loving thee, I
should love mine enemy?

GUIDO. Thine enemy, — what enemy?

BEATRICE. Thyself, who with Love’s shaft hast
pierced my heart, — ^poor heart, that lived but for
itself alone, till thine arrow struck it.

GUIDO. Ah, Beatrice, myself have been wound-
ed so sore by this same bow, that all untended I

552

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act u

lie here to die, unless, beloved physician, thou
dost heal me.

BEATRICE. Nay, I cannot make thee whole, for
I am sick of the same sickness.

GUIDO. Oh, how I love thee! I must e’en rob
the cuckoo of his voice, and sing one note for
aye.

BEATRICE. Nay, sing no other! An this be the
cuckoo’s lay, then is the nightingale hoarse-
throated, and the shrill lark hath lost her melody,

GUIDO. Kiss me, Beatrice! [She takes his head
between her hands, bends over and kisses him; a loud
knocking is heard at the door , — guido springs up,
A serving-man enters.]

SERVING-MAN. A packet for your Worship!

GUIDO [Carelessly], Ah, hand it here!

[The serving-man hands him the packet in a wrap-
per of vermilion silk, and goes off; as guido is in
the act of opening it, the duchess slips behind him
and snatches it away in jest.]

BEATRICE [Laughing]. What is to wager, it
comes from a girl? — she would fain see thee wear-
ing her colours; I do begrudge her the smallest
part in thee. Nay, like a miser I must have thee
all, e’en though I may spoil thee by my greed.

GUIDO. ’Tis nothing.

BEATRICE. A maid doth send it thee.

GUIDO. Thou knowest well, ’tis nothing.

BEATRICE [Turns away and opens the packet].
Traitor, tell me now, what means this: a dagger —
two leopards on it of steel.

GUIDO [Takes the dagger out of her hands], 0 God I

ACT iij THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

553

BEATRICE. Well, then, I will look out o’ win-
dow; mayhap I may recognise hy his arms the
messenger who gave it to the porter at the Gate.
I will never rest till I do know thy secret. [Runs
out onto the loggia laughing.]

GUIDO. ’Tis horrible ! So soon have I forgot my
father’s death, so readily admitted love into mine
heart, that now must I ruthlessly banish it away
and let in murder, that knocks fiercely at the door.
I must! Have I not sworn an oath? Yet not to-
night. Nay, it must be to-day. Farewell then,
all joy and light of life; farewell, all memory of
gentleness; farewell, Beloved! Can I with blood-
stained hands stroke and caress her hands of inno-
cence? with lips still wet with gore meet hers?
Can a murderer’s eyes look into her flowerlike
orbs, that would strike me blind, to languish
henceforward in eternal night? Nay, murder
hath set up a barrier betwixt us — too high for
exchange of kisses.

BEATRICE. Guido!

GUIDO. Beatrice, forget, forget that name,
strike it out for ever from thy life!

BEATRICE [Dramng near him]. Best beloved!

GUIDO [Shrinking back]. A barrier is risen up
betwixt us twain, that we may not pass.

BEATRICE. Naught is there I dare not do, an
thou be near me.

GUIDO. Ah, there it is, I cannot be near thee,
cannot more breathe the same air with thee, nor
greet thy beauty with glance from eye to eye; it
doth unnerve my wavering heart and makes my

554

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

flaccid hand to miss its aim. I prithee, let me go ;
forget that thou hast ever seen me!

BEATEICE. How, with thy kisses still hot upon
my lips, forget the love plights that thou swarest?

GUIDO. I take them back.

BEATRICE. Thou canst not, Guido, they are a
part of elemental nature; the air throbs with their
harmony, and these fond oaths do give a sweeter
melody to the song of birds,

GUIDO. Now is a barrier risen ’twixt us twain,
before forgotten or not known.

BEATRICE. No, there is no barrier, Guido; in
pauper’s weeds I will follow thee to the end of the
world.

GUIDO [Wildly]. The world is not wide enough
to hold us both. Fare thee well for ever.

BEATRICE [Calmly, toilh restrained passion]. Why
didst intrude into my life at all? \^y sow in my
tender heart the white flower of love?

GUIDO. Beatrice!

BEATRICE. Now thou art fain to tear it up root
and branch, but every fibre holds my heart so
fast, that, an thou breahest one, mine heart breaks
too. Why didst come into my life? Why didst
uncover the secret springs of my love, that long
had been choked up? Ah, why?

GUIDO. Oh God!

BEATRICE [Wringing her hands]. Why didst
break open the sluices of passion, till, like the
waters of a flooded river that sweep away with
them meadows and woods. Love with the tri-
umphant might of an avalanche did whirl away

ACT ii] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

555

my life with it? Must I drop by drop gather up
again those waters? Ah me! a tear is formed of
every drop, embittering my life with its salt savour.

GUIDO. Say no more, I do conjure thee, for I
must needs leave thy life, to seek a way that is
denied thee.

BEATRICE. I have heard tell that mariners,
dying of thirst on a raft, wretched castaways on
the wide seas, do dream of green meadows and
rippling brooks, and then, their throats parched,
awake to suffer yet more piteous torments, be-
cause sleep hath so deceived them; and so they
die, cursing the sleep which did cradle them in
dreams. I curse thee not, though I too have made
shipwreck on the ocean men call despair.

GUIDO. Oh God, oh God!

BEATRICE, Ah, stay, stay, Guido; listen, I love
thee. [A short pause,] Is there no echo, when I
say I love thee, to sound back to me? Is it dead?

GUIDO. All, all is dead, — save only one thing,
and that dies to-night.

BEATRICE. Then must I school my lips to part-
ing; and yet, methinks they'll never learn the les-
son, for when I shape them to cry farewell, naught
will they say but this: I love thee! Must I chide
the rebels? But can one lip chide the other? Ah,
both are guilty, and refuse to utter the fatal word.

GUIDO. Then must I say it for them. Farewell;
never can we see each other more. [Rushes to-
wards her.]

BEATRICE. Art going? Nay, touch me not, —
go, I say, go! [Exit guido.] Never again, — ^was

556

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ii

that it, — never see each other again? Well, I
know my duty. I will exchange the lamp of love
for a funeral torch, lay my bridal wreath upon my
bier, alter my wedding-march into a dirge, and so
singing die, like the swan.

Oh grief, an thou art so enamoured of my life,
why couldst not choose another form?— the mask
of pain, not the smile of love, the raven’s voice,
not the nightingale’s, the mole’s blind eyes, not
those sapphire orbs, that lilie the summer sky are
so deep blue God would seem visible in them, —
then, grief, then should I have known thee for
what thou art.

Why in heaven’s name spake he of a barrier?
No, there is no barrier raised betwixt us; he lied,
and should I therefore shun henceforth what I
have loved, and hate what I adored? We women
live not after such a guise. For should I cut his
image from my heart, my heart, in pilgrim wise,
would follow bleeding after that image through
the world and summon it back with the soft call of
love.

[Erder the duke equipped for the chase with Fal-
coners and dogs.]

DUKE. You kept us waiting, and our dogs to
boot.

BEATRICE. I do not hunt to-day.

DUKE. Why so?

BEATRICE. I cannot go, my Lord.

DUKE. What, baby face, thou dar’st to cross
my will? I could bind thee on a jade and chase
thee through the streets, that the rabble, — the

ACT II ] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

557

folk thou feedest! — might wave their caps and
scoff at thee.

BEATRICE. Hast never then a kindly word for
me?

DUKE. With kindly words a man doth catch
his enemies. Thee I hold within the hollow of my
hand; why need I waste flattering speeches?

BEATRICE. I am not coming.

DUKE [Beating his boot with his riding whip], I
have changed my mind. Thou art to remain at
home, and like a devoted wife, mayst watch from
the lattice for our return. ’Twere too terrible if
any accident befell thy dear consort ! Ho, Lords,
come on, the dogs are hot-foot, — and I too, with so
dutiful a wife beside me. Where is Childe Guido?

MAFFio. My lord, I have not seen him for a
full hour past.

DUKE. No matter, soon enow I shall get a sight
of him. You, gracious lady, tarry soft at home
and spin. I wager you my word, home-keeping
virtues are oft very commendable, — in other folks.

[Exit DUKE with his train,]

BEATRICE. The stars do fight against me, that
is the sum of all. Wherefore will I this night,
when my lord is asleep, make good use of my dag-
ger and so end my days. My heart is like a stone
that nothing scores save the dagger's edge. There
let it find the name that lies hid within. To-night
must death sever me from the Duke, — but yet
he too, the old Duke, may die to-day. Why not?
Yesterday his hand was stricken palsied; men
have oft been slain by such a stroke, — and why

668

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE {act n

not he? Are there not fever too and ague and
fit, as mostly such accompany old age? Nay,
nay, he dies not, he is too sinful. The honour-
worthy die before their time. The good die, —
beside whom, in the hideous pollution of his life,
he is a leper. Women and children die; the Duke
dies not, he is too sinful.

Can it be, that sin hath a sort of immortality,
unknown to virtue? Can it be that the bad man
thrives on what to other mortals is death, like
poisonous herbs that live from corruption? Nay,
nay, God would never suffer that. Yet my lord
dies not, he is too sinful. Wherefore ’tis I alone
will die to-night. Grim death must so my bride-
groom be, the grave my secret pleasure house of
joy. A churchyard is the world, and like a coffin
each one doth carry a skeleton within.

[count moranzone enters, all in black; he crosses
the stage in the background, gazing about him
anxiously.]

MORANZONE. Guido? Where is he? nowhere
can I find him.

BEATRICE [Perceiving him]. Oh God! Twas
thou didst take away my love from me.

MORANZONE [With flashing eyes]. How, hath he
forsaken thee?

BEATRICE. What! dost not know? Give him
back to me, oh, give him back to me; else will I
have thy body tom limb from limb, and thy head
nailed to the pillory, till the carrion vultures have
flayed it bare. Better hadst thou crossed the
lioness’s path than come betwixt my love and me.

ACT II] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

559

[With gathering passion.] Oh, give him back, thou
know’st not how I love him. But now he knelt
on that seat, here stood, there gazed at me and
kissed my wide open portals, dropt a song of love,
so wild with hand and spoiled these lips with his,
and in these ears, yearning that all around the
birds fell silent. Give him back to me!

MOEANZONE. He loves you not.

BEATRICE. The plague dry up thy tongue, that
saith so! Give him back to me!

MORANZONE. You will ncvcr, noble lady, see
him more, neither this night nor any other night.

BEATRICE. What is thy name?

MORANZONE. What is my name? — Revenge!

[Exit.]

BEATRICE. Revenge! I have never harmed a
little child; what seeks revenge then at my door?
No matter, death stands ready there on watch, to
light me with his gloomy torch. ’Tis true, men
hate thee. Death, yet to me thou wilt be dearer
than my best beloved. Send forth thy messengers
then straightway, urge on the weary steeds of
lagging day and hurry forward night, thy sister.
Enwrap the world in black, and let thy parson,
the owl, screech from his ruined tower, the toad
croak, and the bat, slave of the dark Persephone,
whir on fluttering pinions through the gloom.
Tear up the shrieking mandrakes, that they make
us music for the dance, and bid the mole dig deep
thy cold, narrow bed. For this night will I lie
within thine arms.

End op Act II

ACT III

A Broad Corridor in the Duke's Palace

To left, a window affording a view over Padua by
moonlight. To right, a flight of steps leading to a
door, before which hangs a curtain of crimson satin
embroidered with the Ducal arms in gold. On the bot-
tom step is seated a black-robed figure. The scene is
lighted by an iron brazier in which tow is burning.
Thunder and lightning. Night-time.

[GUIDO climbs in by the window.]

GUIDO. The storm grows fiercer ; how my ladder
swayed ! At every shock methought the ropes had
parted! [Looks back at the city.] Great God, what
a night! In the skies the crash of thunder, and
wild lightnings that blaze through the town from
pinnacle to pinnacle, till the pale houses tremble
and seem to shudder each time another flash darts
along the streets. [Crosses stage to the foot of the
steps.] Ha, who art thou, that lurk’st on the stairs
watching like Death for a guilty soul? [A pause.]
Art dumb? Hath the storm paralysed thy tongue
and benumbed thy speech? Out of the way; in
yonder chamber have I work to accomplish, that
no man else can do. [The figure rises and removes
its mask,]

MORANZONE. Guido Ferranti 1 Thy dead father
shouts with glad triumph this night!

GUIDO [Confused]. What, are you here?

560

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

561

MORANZONE. I was Waiting your coming.

GUIDO [Looking away from him]. I did not ex-
pect you; yet am I glad I can now tell you min e
intent.

MORANZONE. First would I inform thee of my
plans! Know then, the horses stand ready at the
Parma gate; once thou hast performed thine office,
we ride thence away. To-morrow night, an our
steeds prove trusty, we shall be at Parma. There
are already warned the old-time friends of thy
noble father, who have long been stirring up a re-
volt of the burghers. By dint of gold and empty
promises I have won to our side many folk that
now hold to the Duke, the usurper. Once the
Duke is dead, the soldiery is soon induced to
mutiny, and then thou mountest thy father’s
throne as lawful lord of Padua.

GUIDO. It cannot, cannot be.

MORANZONE. It shall be!

GUIDO. Now hear me. Count Moranzone, I am
resolved not to kill the Duke.

MORANZONE. Say that again! Mine ears have
cheated me, eld hath numbed my powers. I am
grown a greybeard afore my time. What didst
say? Thou wouldst with the dagger in thy girdle
revenge thy father’s bloody murder. Didst thou
say that?

GUIDO. No, I said, Sir Count, I was resolved
not to kill the Duke.

MORANZONE. Impossible, my senses do deceive
me; or the midnight storm-laden air changes thy
meaning in the saying.

502

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

GUIDO. Y ou hear aright ; I will not kill the man.

MOBANZONE. And what, traitor, of thine oath?

GUIDO. I am determined to break it!

MORANZONE. And what of thy father’s murder?

GUIDO. Think you, my father would have joy,
to see this old man’s blood reeking on my hands?

MORANZONE. Yea, he would laugh for pleasure.

GUIDO. Not so — the other world hath better
knowledge; vengeance is God’s, leave it to God.

MORANZONE. Thou art God’s instrument of
vengeance.

GUIDO. Nay! God needs no instrument but
his own hand. I will not kill the man.

MORANZONE. Wilt not! then why art thou here?

GUIDO. Count Moranzone, I will push into the
Duke’s chamber, to lay the dagger here on the
sleeper’s bosom, and this paper. When he awakes,
he will learn in whose power he was, who spared
his life; that is the fairest revenge for me.

MORANZONE. Thou will not slay him?

GUIDO. No!

MORANZONE. Ignoble scion of the noblest of
fathers, who dost not begrudge another hour of
life to the man who sold him.

GUIDO. You stayed my hand therefrom. Else
had I killed him in the open market-place, the
day first I saw him.

MORANZONE. Twas not the time then ; now the
hour is come, and like a girl, thou pratest of mercy,

GUIDO. No, but of right revenge, such as be-
seems my father’s son.

MORANZONE. Unhappy father, once more be-

ACT HI] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

563

trayed, and by your own son ! Thou art a dastard ;
else draw thy steel, dash into the Duke’s room,
and bring me back his black heart upon thy
sword. Once he is dead, then thou may’st talk
to me of noble vengeance.

GtJiDO. Hear me! Upon your honour, upon
your love toward my father’s name, think you,
my father, that puissant lord, that doughty hero,
that knightly warrior, would e’er have crept in
like a thief by night, and stabbed a greybeard in
his bed? Speak!

MORANZONE [After some hesitation]. Thou didst
take an oath, and thou must keep it! Dost deem
I know not thy secret, thy commerce with the
Duchess?

GUIDO. Stop, thou liar! The moon herself is
not so chaste, the stars not so pure.

MORANZONE. And yet thou lov’st her, weak
fool, who usest love but only as a plaything!

GUIDO. Y ea, thou dost well to talk ; in thy veins,
greybeard, youth stirs not stormily. Thy bleared
eye hath barred its veiled gateway to beauty,
thy ear is stopped, robbed of its erstwhile keen-
ness, and shut to this world’s music. Thou talk’st
of love, and knowest not what love is.

MORANZONE. I too, young sir, have wandered
moonstruck, have sworn, sick with yearning, to
die, and died not; I too have nimbly rhymed of
htes and doves in halting verses sung to a cracked
guitar, as lovers used to do; I know the trick o’t,
mad lust of food and bed. ... At bottom we all are
beasts — ^love is mere sensuality under a holy name.

564

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

GUIDO. Now am I assured you know naught at
all of Love. Love is life’s sacrament ; it hath magic
to charm virtue out of naught, and purifies from
all the nauseous refuse of this world. It is the
fire that refines the gold from dross, the van that
sifts chaff and wheat, the Spring that from the
hard-frozen soil lets innocency put forth her rose-
buds. God walks no more amongst mankind —
his image. Love, goes in His stead. The man who
loves a woman knoweth the secret as well of the
Creator as of the world created. There is no
house so lowly, so poor and pitiful, that, if the
indwcllers be pure of heart. Love shuns the same;
but an if bloody murder knock at the Palace gate
and find an entrance, then creeps I^ove wounded
forth and dies. That is the penalty ordained of
God for sin. The bad man cannot love. [Groans
are heard from ihe duke’s sleeping-room.] What is
that? Do you not hear it?

MORANZONE. Nay, ’twas nothing.

GUIDO. I take this to be woman’s mission, —
through the power of Love to save man’s soul;
love for my Beatrice hath taught me to see a more
sublime, more holy vengeance, an if I spare the
Duke, than in any bloody deed of murderous mid-
night violence, — young hands choking out an old
man’s life. Was’t not for Love’s sake that Christ,
who was himself Love incarnate, exhorted men to
forgive their enemies?

MORANZONE [Scoffingly]. That was in Palestine,
not at Padua — a saying coined for Saints. I have
to deal with men.

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

565

GUIDO. ’Tis for all times.

MORANZONE. Wherein is shown the Duchess’s
gratitude? Will she bend her cheek to thine, and
fondle thee, because her consort can no more tor-
ture her?

GUIDO. Woe is me! never must I see her face
more. Scarce twelve hours agonc I took leave of
her so abruptly, with such unruly passion, that
she hath shut fast her heart against me. No, I
shall never see her more.

MORANZONE. What art minded to do?

GUIDO. Once I have laid the dagger in its place,
I leave Padua this very night.

MORANZONE. And then?

GUIDO. I go to enroll my name with the Doge
of Venice, that he send me speedily to the wars to
fight against the Heathen in the Holy Land; there
will I, for my life is but a burden to me, throw
myself recklessly upon some foeman’s spear. [Re-
newed groaning from the duke’s chamber.] Hear
you not someone crying?

MORANZONE. I hear continually from the dark
purlieus of the grave one crying for vengeance.
We waste time; the morn is near; art thou deter-
mined not to kill the Duke?

GUIDO. I am so resolved.

MORANZONE. Guido Ferranti, there in yonder
room lies the man who erst sold your father and
delivered him to the headsman’s hands. There he
sleeps; thou hast thy father’s dagger; wilt thou
not slay him?

GUIDO. I will not.

$66

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act m

MORANZONE. Unhappy father, thou art left
unavenged.

GUIDO. Unhappier yet were thy son a murderer.

MORANZONE. Pshaw, what is life?

GUIDO. I know not, Sir Count; I did not give
it, and I dare not take it.

MORANZONE. Not oft have I thanked God so
heartily as now, that he hath bestowed never a
son on me! Why, what bastard blood then flows
in thy veins, that, having thine enemy in thy
power, thou let’st him escape 1 I would thou hadst
tarried where thou wert.

GUIDO. Mayhap it had been better so. May-
hap the best of all, an I had never seen this world
of sorrow!

MORANZONE. Farewell!

GUIDO. Farewell to you. Count Moranzone!
One day the purport of my vengeance will be
clear to you.

MORANZONE. Never.

[Exit by the window, and down the rope-ladder.]

GUIDO. Thou, father, knowest of mine intent
and art content with this nobler vengeance.
Whenas I grant the man his life, I ween I am doing
as thou would’st have done thyself. I cannot tell,
father, whether human voice can break through
the iron prison of the dead, whether the departed
have any tidings of what we do and leave undone
for their sakes. And yet, methinks, I feel a pres-
ence near me, like a shadow by my side, and me-
seems as though spirit kisses touched my lips, and
left them sanctified. [Kneeis.] Oh father, canst

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

S67

thou not break the laws of Death and show thy-
self in bodily shape, that I may grasp thy hand?
Nay, nay, ’tis naught, [fiises.] It is the midnight
phantoms do befool us, the night deceives us like
a puppet-showman, persuading us that what is
not, is. ’Tis waxing late; I must now to my work.
[Draws a letter from his bosom and reads.] When
he wakes and sees this letter and the dagger beside
it, disgust will take hold on hhn for his life. Will
he mayhap repent and reform his ways? Or will
he mock, because a young wight hath spared him,
his bitter enemy? 'Tis all one to me. Thy errand,
father, it is that I fullfil, — thy orders and my love’s,
which hath taught me to know thee as thou art.
[Glides up the steps; just as he is stretching out his
hand to draw back the curtain, the duchess comes
forward to meet him, all in white, guido starts back.]
Beatrice?

BEATEiCB. Guido, is it thou here, — ^so late at
night?

GUIDO. Thou stainless angel of my life, thou
comest surely from God with a heavenly message,
— that ’tis nobler to practise mercy than revenge.

BEATRICE. For mercy I do beseech thee from
my heart of hearts.

GUIDO. Oh father, now do I know thy will; for
with Mercy hand in hand appeared Love like a
God upon my path.

BEATRICE. I felt sure thou would’st come back
again, when thou didst leave me so cruelly. Oh
why didst do it? I make no quarrel, for now can
I keep thee, feel thy heart’s pulse throb soft ami

568

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act in

fearful against mine. We are a pair of cage birds
that kiss each other through the bars. — The time
slips by, dawn will be here in an hour; get horses
for the ride to Venice, there I am in no suspicion
from them.

GUIDO. I follow thee, dearest, to the world’s
end.

BEATRICE. Nay, but dost love me verily?

GUIDO. Loves the lark the grey of dawn, that
wakes its note?

BEATRICE. Can naught change thee?

GUIDO. Naught in this world. So sure as swings
the mariner’s needle, so turn I to the loadstone
of thy love.

BEATRICE. No obstacle rises now betwixt us?

GUIDO. None now, nor in the future.

BEATRICE. That is my work.

GUIDO. Now wait till I do mine.

BEATRICE. Wilt thou go from me? leave me
again as erst?

GUIDO. In one moment will I fare back. First
I must haste into the Duke’s chamber and leave
this letter there, and this dagger with it, — that
when he wakes . . .

BEATRICE. Who wakcs?

GUIDO. The Duke.

BEATRICE. He will never wake more.

GUIDO. Is he dead?

BEATRICE. Yea, he is dead.

GUIDO. Oh God, how wonderful are thy ways!
Could I e’er have thought that, this very night
when I entrusted to thy hands the vengeance that

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

569

is Thine, Thou wouldst touch the man with Thy
finger and summon him before Thy judgment seat?

BEATRICE. 1 have just stabbed him. . . .

GUIDO [in horror]. Oh!

BEATRICE. — in his sleep. Come nearer, be-
loved, let me tell you all. Ere I begin, kiss me on
the mouth. What 1 thou wilt not kiss me? Well,
thou wilt, when thou hast learned how I slew him.
Meseemed, after thou hadst left me in anger, that
life was stale, unprofitable, without thy love. I
had resolved to kill myself this night. About an
hour agone, I woke, drew forth my dagger from
beneath the pillow, where I had hid it with this
intent, bared the blade and tried its sharpness,
and thought of thee, how fondly I loved thee.
The weapon was already aimed upon myself, when
I turned mine eyes to the greybeard, ripe in years
and wickedness, as he lay there, still muttering
curses in his sleep. At sight of that hateful face a
lightning flash shot through me suddenly: this is
the barrier Guido spake of — whom else could he
mean when he said barrier but him?

What happened next, I scarce know. One
thing only, that betwixt him and me a reeking
mist of blood arose.

GUIDO. Horrible!

BEATRICE. Yea, well mightest thou call the
sight I saw horrible; there was a rain of gore, then
he groaned grievously, and then the groaning died
away. Then I only heard the blood drip, drip
down on the floor.

GUIDO. Enough, enough.

570

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act m

BEATRICE. Wilt thou Bot kiss me now? Dost
not remember what thou saidst, — that woman’s
love makes angels of us men; well, man’s love
makes martyrs of poor women, who bear every-
thing for his sake.

GUIDO. God!

BEATRICE. Thou hast naught to say?

GUIDO. Speech dies betwixt my lips.

BEATRICE. The Duke was slain with this steel.
I never thought he would have bled so sore. Well,
water may wash clean my hands, is’t not so? But
my soul? Enough, enough! let us begone hence!
Is not the barrier betwixt us fallen? What wouldst
thou more? Come now, the mom draws nigh.
[Lays her hand on guido’s.]

GUIDO [Shrinking away from her]. Lost Saint!
Angel from hell! What bloody demon was it set
thee on? That thou didst kill thy consort is
naught, — Hell was already gaping for his soul, —
but thou hast murdered Love along with him,
and where Love was, is now but a bloody stain,
that breathes forth reek of plague and pestilence,
and chokes Love.

BEATRICE [in a sort of amazement]. I did it for
thee. Hadst thou so willed, I had never suffered
it. Thou art to remain forsooth without spot or
blemish, untouched, blameless, unsmirched ! Men
know not what women do for love’s sake. Have
I not destroyed my soul for all eternity? Oh, be
kind to me; I did it for thee.

GUIDO. Touch me not; there flows a slender
stream of blood betwixt us, that yet can ne’er

act m] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

571

be bridged. When thou didst stab thy husband,
thou didst smite Love to the heart with the same
blow. We must see each other no more.

BEATRICE [Wringing /jer /jands]. For thee! For
thee! I did it for thee; canst forget that? Thou
spakest of a barrier betwixt us twain; now the
barrier lies in yon upper chamber, laid low, de-
stroyed, shattered and overthrown, — it can divide
us no more.

GUIDO. Thou didst misunderstand me, sin was
the barrier, and thou hast set it up thyself ; crime
was the harrier, murder was the barrier, and thine
own hand hath built it up so high it shuts out
Heaven and God.

BEATRICE. I did it for thee, thou canst not,
must not, forsake me. Guido, hear! See to get-
ting horses, let us set forth to-night. What was
is like an evil dream — ^forgotten, the future beck-
ons us; arc wc not faring forth to find sweet days
of love in the flowery meads? We will laugh; nay,
then we will weep, if only we weep together, thou
and I; I will serve thee like a poor drudge, like
any handmaid. I will be so humble, so full of
lowliness; thou dost not know me!

GUIDO. Nay, nay, I know thee now. Begone,
begone, I say, from my sight!

BEATRICE [Pacing backwards and forwards]. Ah
God ! how fondly I have loved this man !

GUIDO. Never! Else would Love have stayed
thine arm, when thou didst sully his sanctuary,
which only innocency may rightly enter.

BEATRICE. These are mere words, words, words.

572

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ni

GUIDO. Begone! How could we ever share the
holy meal of love? Thou hast poured poison in
the consecrated wine, murder dips his finger in the
cup. I had liefer have borne a thousand deaths.

BEATRICE. Since I did the deed, I have home a
thousand deaths.

GUIDO. ’Tis life, not death, thou hast to dread.

BEATRICE [Throwing herself upon her knees].
Then strike me dead! I have poured forth blood,
pour forth more yet, and heaven, or else hell, will
greet us twain united. Draw thy sword, and
quick make reckoning with Death, who yet licks
his lips after this feast. Quick, quick, let thy
sword pierce to my heart, ’twill find there but the
image of its lord. But an thou wilt not kill me
with thy sword, then bid me fall upon this reeking
knife, and I will do it.

GUIDO [Wresting the knife from her hand]. Give
it me, give it me, I say. Oh God ! thy very hand is
wet with blood. Hell is here, I can tarry no longer.

BEATRICE. Wilt thou not raise me up, or must
I like a beggar grovel on my knees?

GUIDO. Let me never behold thy face again!

BEATRICE. Ah, well for me, had I never seen
thee! But bethink thee, ’twas for thee I did it.
[GUIDO shrinks away; kneeling, she seizes his hands.]
Nay, Guido, grant me hearing for a brief space!
Till thou earnest to Padua, I lived indeed a la-
mentable life there, but free from thoughts of
murder, — subject to the cruelty of my husband,
obedient to his unrighteous wishes, as pure as
any maid of noble lineage, that now would draw

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

573

back shuddering from my touch. Then thou
earnest, Guido, and I heard from thy lips the first
words of kindness I had ever listened to since I
left France. What then! Thou earnest hither,
in thine ardent eyes I read the meaning of love,
every word from thee rang like music in my
numbed soul. Thou didst shine splendid, like the
good Saint Michael in Santa Croce, the Church I
used to pray in. Shall I ever go there to pray again?
In thy bright, young face glowed the clear light of
morning — and I loved thee, yet hid my love from
thee. Thou didst pay court to me, didst kneel
before me, as now I kneel at thy feet. With sweet-
sounding oaths thou didst vow love to me, and
I tnisted thee. I thought how that many women
in the world, if they were wedded to this monster,
fettered to him, like galley-slaves to a leper, —
that many women would have assailed thee as
temptresses. I did not so. I know, an I had done
it, albeit I had not lain in the very dust before
thee, thou wouldst have loved me unchangingly.
[Approaches him timidly after a pause.] Whether
thou dost understand me even now, I cannot tell,
Guido; for thee I have committed the outrage,
that hath chilled my young blood to ice, for thee,
and thee alone. [Stretching out her arms.]

Wilt thou not speak to me? Love me a little;
ah, my youth hath so lacked love, so yearned for
friendship.

GUIDO. I dare not look upon thee; what thou
cravest is too, too publicly infamous. Get thee
gone to thy chamberwomen!

574

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act hi

BEATRICE. Ha, ha! there speaks a man ! — Hadst
ihm come to me with guilt-laden soul, a foul mur-
der thou hadst committed not for love, but lucre,
I would have sat me upon thy bed and watched
by thee the livelong night, that remorse might
not distil its poison in thine ear and drive sleep
away. For the guilty man best merits love in his
torment.

GUIDO. Where guilt is, love hath naught to seek.

BEATRICE. Where guilt is, ought not love to be?
Oh God! how differently we women love from
men. Many and many a woman lives here in
Padua, that toils and moils and wears her fingers
to the bone in hard work — the husband wastes the
scanty week’s wage in dissolute carouse, in the
boisterous tavern, then staggers home late o’ the
Saturday night, to find his wife seated at the fire-
less hearth, lulling asleep her whimpering child.
At that he starts beating his poor wife, because
the child cries with hunger and the fire is black.
Yet the wife loves him, rises up next morning, her
face all swollen with grief and marks of blows, and
tidies the house, sets her work in trim, forces a
smile and is but too glad if he beat her not before
their child another time! — ^That is a woman’s love.
[Pause.] Thou dost not speak. Oh be kind to
me, while yet the summer of my life shines bright.
Thou canst not drive me from thy side; whither
am I to go, an if thou reject me? For thee hath
this hand murdered life, for thee my soul hath
undone itself beyond redemption.

GUIDO. Begone from my sight! The dead man

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

575

is a spirit, and our love hovers like a spectre round
its desert grave and wanders through this charnel-
house, and weeps, because it was murdered when
thy consort was slain. Dost not see that?

BEATRICE. I see this, that when men love, they
give women scant, scant measure, but women
give all they have, when they love. That is what
I see now, Guido.

GUIDO. Away! Away! Awake thy dead to
life, ere thou dar’st return.

BEATRICE. All, would to God I could awake the
dead, give back the glassy eye its power of vision,
the tongue its erstwhile flow of words, the heart
its hfe-pulse — but it cannot be. What’s done is
done; once dead, dead for aye; no more the fire
warms, or the winter chills with all its snows.
Something is flown; call him, no answer comes, —
make jest, he laughs no more, — stab him, he never
bleeds. Would that I could awake him! Oh God,
turn back thy sun a brief while, erase this night
in the book of time and blot it out. Reverse the
sun and let me be what an hour agone I was.
Nay, nay, time stands not still for anything, the
sun stays not his course, though remorse cry e’er
so hoarsely. But thou, beloved, has thou no word
of pity more for me? Oh Guido, Guido, kiss me
once again! Force me not to some desperate re-
solve! A woman waxes mad, when so entreated.
Wilt thou not kiss me yet once more?

GUIDO [Holding up the knife]. Nay, not till the
blood is dried upon this steel, nor even then.

BEATRICE. How scant pity. Saviour, is for us

676 THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act ni

women in this rough world! Men do entice us to
the abyss, and then desert us when we fall into it.

GUIDO [Wildly]. Go, go to join thy dead!

BEATRICE [Going up the steps]. Well then, I will
go! May you one day find more pity than thou
hast given me.

GUIDO. Let me find pity, when I do commit
foul midnight murder.

BEATRICE [Descending three or four steps again].
Murder thou saidst? Murder is an hungered and
doth crave for more. Death, his twin brother, is
not satisfied; but stalks shrieking through the
house and will not be appeased till he have com-
pany. Tarry a while. Death, I will give thee a
faithful servant to fare with thee. Stay shrieking,
murder, thou shalt enjoy a full feast, till thou be
satiate.

A storm will threaten this house before mom, so
fearful that the white moon is already changed to
grey for very horror; a light wind sweeps moaning
round the house, the stars above haste madly
along their heavenly path, as if the night were
melting in tears of fire for what the day brings
with it. Oh weep, lamenting heaven ! Weep thine
eyes out I Though grief like a deluge drowned all
the universe, till it became one ocean of bitter
tears, yet were’t not enough! [A peal of thunder.]
Dost not understand? the heavens have mounted
their artillery. Revenge is waked, and her sleuth
hounds are let loose on the world. Who of us twain
calls down the lightning on his head, let him be-
ware the hurt that lurks within the forked levin’s

ACT III] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

577

flame. [.A flash of lightning, followed by a peal of
thunder.]

GUIDO. Away! Away!

[Exit the DUCHESS. As she raises the crimson
door-curtain, she throws one last look hack at guido,
ivithout the latter showing any sign of relenting.
Thunder again.]

In ashes at my feet lies my life, love itself is
slain. In its stead hath murder crept in on
stealthy bloodstained feet. And she, she who
hath wrought the deed, — ^yet she loved me and
did the outrage for my sake! Beatrice, Beatrice,
come back!

[Just as he is mounting the steps, the tread of sol-
diers is heard approaching.] Ha, what is that?
The gleam of torches and swift hurrying feet.
God grant they do not seize her. [The approaching
sounds grow louder.] Beatrice! there is still time
for flight. Come down, come down! [The
duchess’s voice is heard from without.]

BEATRICE. This Way fled my husband’s mur-
derer.

[Down the steps hurries a troop of soldiers. At
first they do not see guido, until the duchess ap-
pears, surrounded by her attendants carrying torches,
at the lop of the stairs and points out where guido
stands. He is at once arrested. One of the men-at-
arms snatches the knife from his hands and shows
it to the Captain of the Watch.]

End of Act III

ACT IV

Hall of Justice

The lower pari of the walls is hung toUh stamped
grey velvet, the upper part painted red. Gilded sym-
bolic figures support the roof, which is decorated with
red stripes; frieze and skirting-boards are grey. A
canopy of white satin with gold flower pattern is
erected for the duchess. Below this, a long bench,
draped with a red cloth, for the Judges. Below this
again a table for the Clerks of the Court. Two sol-
diers stand either side of the Canopy, and two more
guard the door. The citizens have some of them al-
ready entered, while others are still arriving and ex-
changing greetings. Two Ushers in violet uniforms
keep order with long white wands.

FIRST BURGHER. Good moiTOw, neighbour An-
thony.

SECOND BURGHER. Good moiTow, neighbour
Dominic.

FIRST BURGHER. ’Tis a memorable day for
Padua, eh? — the Duke dead.

SECOND BURGHER. Let me tell thee this, neigh-
bour Dominic, I have never lived a right day’s life
since the last Duke died — as true as I’m an honest
man.

FIRST BURGHER. They’ll examine him first, and
then judge him, won’t they, neighbour Anthony?

SECOND BURGHER. Nay, nay! else might dis-

578

ACT ivj THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

679

putes occur. First he’ll be judged, that he may
get his deserts, and then the examination will be
held, so that no injustice is possible.

FIRST BURGHER. Well, Well, ’twill go hard with
his neck, there’s no doubt o’ that.

SECOND BURGHER. Yea, ’tis most impious
wicked to spill the blood of a Duke.

FIRST BURGHER. A Duke must have blue blood
i’ his veins, eh?

SECOND BURGHER. As I look on’t, our Duke’s
blood was black, like his black soul.

FIRST BURGHER. Have a care, neighbour An-
thony, the Usher with the blue eyes hath marked
thee.

SECOND BURGHER. For what I care, let him cast
his blue eyes on me an he will; he can’t knock me
down with 'cm.

THIRD BURGHER. What think ye specially of
the young fellow who stuck his knife into the
Duke?

SECOND BURGHER. ’Tis a well bred, well dis-
positioned, well looking lad, — and natheless a
villain, for he hath killed the Duke.

THIRD BURGHER. He hath done’t for the first
time. Mayhap the law will give him extenuating
circumstances, seeing ’tis a case of ‘ first offence.’

SECOND BURGHER. Yea truly, I never thought
o’ that. But then the Law is hard on every man.

USHER. Hold thy tongue, rascal!

SECOND BURGHER. What, am I thy mirror, that
thou miscall’st me rascal?

FIRST BURGHER, Here comes one o’ the House-

580

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act n

hold. How now. Dame Lucia, what news from
Court? How is’t with thy poor mistress, the
Duchess with the gentle face?

LUCIA. A fine day truly! a fine day o’ calamity!
Alackaday, what a day and what a calamity!
This very year come Michaelmas, ’tis just nine-
teen year since I wedded my good man. Now we
be at August, and the Duke is murdered; there’s
a notable coincidence for ye!

SECOND BURGHER. Ah, if ’tis a notable coinci-
dence, mayhap the lad will not be done for.
’Gainst coincidences is no law ; at least I know o’
none ’gainst incidents.

FIRST BURGHER. But how goes it with the
Duchess?

LUCIA. I was sure some disaster was co ming
on the house; for six weeks past the cakes have
all been burnt o’ the one side, and only last Mar-
tinmas eve a big moth, with wings, flew into the
candle, so that of sheer fright I well nigh

SECOND BURGHER. But tell US of the Duchess,
good gossip; how doth she fare?

LUCIA, r fegs, and ’tis high time ye asked news
of her; the poor lady is near out of her wits. The
whole night long she hath never closed an eye, but
hath paced back and forth her chamber. I begged
her to take somewhat, a whey-posset or a sup of
aquavitse, and get to bed, and not grudge a spell
of sleep to her shattered nerves; but ‘nay, nay,’
she answered, ‘I am afraid of dreaming!’ What
think ye of her word, — strange, is’t not?

SECOND BURGHER. Great folks be something

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

581

short of sense; Providence doth make it up to
’em in fine clothes.

LUCIA. Well, well, this is all I can say: God
keep us from murder, so long as we live.

[moranzone enters hastily.]

MORANZONE. Is the Duke dead?

SECOND BURGHER. His heart hath a knife stuck
in’t, and that can scarce be healthful for any man.

MORANZONE. Who is accused of the murder?

SECOND BURGHER. Thc prisoner, Sir.

MORANZONE. Who is the prisoner?

SECOND BURGHER. Why, the man they do ac-
cuse of having murdered the Duke.

MORANZONE. I mean, what is his name?

SECOND BURGHER. Why, just whatever his god-
fathers baptised him by? what could it be else?

USHER. Guido Ferranti is his name, noble sir.

MORANZONE. Yea, I knew it almost before you
told me. [Aside.] ’Tis strange he should have
killed the Duke, seeing he left me in so different
a mind. Methinks, when he looked on the man,
the fiendish bewrayer of his father, then passionate
anger drew from out his heart all his boyish love-
lore and planted revenge there instead. But I
wonder he escaped not. [Mingling again with the
crowd.] Say, how was he seized?

THIRD BURGHER. Why surely, by the forelock.
Sir.

MORANZONE. I mean, who seized him?

THIRD BURGHER. Why verfly, they who ar-
rested him.

MORANZONE. Who raised the alarm?

582

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

THIRD BURGHER. That I cannot tell you, Sir.

LUCIA. The Duchess herself denounced him.

MORANZONE [Aside]. The Duchess! That hath
an ugly sound.

LUCIA. Of course! The dagger was still in his
hand — the Duchess’s dagger.

MORANZONE. What say you?

LUCIA. With the Duchess’s dagger was my
Lord Duke slain.

MORANZONE [Aside]. Some mystery lurks be-
hind all this, that I cannot fathom.

SECOND BURGHER. They tarry long ere they
come into Court.

FIRST BURGHER. They will come soon enow, I
trow, for the prisoner.

USHER. Silence! silence there!

FIRST BURGHER. Dost break the silence thine
own self. Sir Usher, ordering us to keep it.

[The President of the Court and the Judges enter.]
SECOND BURGHER. Who is yonder fellow in scar-
let? Is’t the headsman?

THIRD BURGHER. Nay, that is the Chief Justiciar.

[GUIDO is brought in under guard.]

SECOND BURGHER. There comes the prisoner
for sure.

THIRD BURGHER. He looks a likely lad enow.

FIRST BURGHER. Ay, but that is all his wiliness;
scoundrels nowadays do look so respectable, that
respectable folk, an they would be different from
’em, must needs look like scoundrels.

[The headsman enters, and takes his place behind
GUIDO.]

ACT ivj THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

583

SECOND BUBGHEB. Here coines the headsman!
By’r Lord — think ye the axe is sharp?

piBST BUBGHEB. Yea, a deal sharper than thy
wits; but the edge is not turned toward him, marie
ye that, neighbours?

SECOND BUBGHEB [Scroiching his neck]. Ton
my word, I had liefer ’twere not quite so nigh.

FiBST BUBGHEB. Pshaw, needst have no fear,
man; us common folk they never behead, but just
set us a-swing at end of a rope. [Fanfare of trum-
pets toithoui.]

THiBD BUBGHEB. What mean the trumpets? Is
the sitting over already?

FIBST BUBGHEB. Nay, that doth mean the
Duchess.

[Enter the duchess in black velvet; her train of
flowered black velvet is borne by pages clad in violet.
With her enter the cabdinal in scarlet robes and the
Gentlemen of the Court in black. She takes her
place on the throne above the Jtidges' bench; the latter
rise and remove their caps at her entrance. The
cabdinal sUs beside the duchess, but on a slightly
lower level. The Courtiers group themselves about
the throne.]

SECOND BUBGHEB. The poor Duchess, how
white she looks ! Is she going to sit on the throne?

FIBST BUBGHEB. Yea, now she doth take the
Duke’s place.

SECOND BUBGHEB. ’Tis a right good thing for
Padua; the Duchess is a kind-hearted, merciful
Lady — once she cured my child of a fever.

THIBD BUBGHEB. Yea, and more than that; she

584

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE (act iv

hath given us bread. That should not be forgot
to her credit.

A SOLDIER. Stand back there, good folk!

SECOND BURGHER. Why need we to stand back,
if we be good folk?

USHER. Silence in the Court!

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. With your Grace’s leave, an
it please you, we will deal with the Duke’s murder.
[The DUCHESS bows assent.] Let the prisoner step
forward! What is thy name?

GUIDO. What matters that, my Lord?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Guido Ferranti they call thee
in Padua.

GUIDO. A man can die under that name as well
as another.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. ’Tis Well known to thee what
awful crime they charge thee with, — ^most trait-
orous murder done on our Duke, Simone Gesso,
Lord of Padua. What defence hast thou to
offer?

GUIDO. None.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Then dost thou make confes-
sion of guilt?

GUIDO. Nay, I do confess naught, and I deny
naught. I pray you, worshipful sir, proceed as fast
as e’er the use of justice and the law permit.
I will render no explanations.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Then canst thou not be guilt-
less of the murder; rather hath thy hardened, con-
tumacious heart shut fast its gates against the
jTght. Never think thy silence will avail thee; on
the contrary it doth but magnify thy guilt, whereof

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS OP PADUA

58S

we have been all along fully convinced. Now once
more, I bid thee speak.

GUIDO. I will not speak.

CHIEF JUSTiciAE. Then naught is left for me to
do but speedily to pronounce on thee the doom of
death.

GUIDO. I beseech you, say out your judgment
quick. You can confer on me no more longed for
Ixion.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR [Rising]. Guido Ferranti

MORANZONE [Adcancing from among the aowd\.
Stay, stay, Sir Justiciar!

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Who art thou that bidst
justice stay?

MORANZONE. An it be justice, let it take its
course; but an it be not

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Who is this?

BARDi. A Noble, and well known to our
whilom Duke.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Well, Sir, you have come
opportunely to be satisfied anent our Duke’s
murder. There stands the man who did the
hideous deed.

MORANZONE. Hath mere suspicion fastened
blindly on him, or have you proofs he was the man?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Thrice over hath the Court
summoned him to say his say; but guilt lies heavy
on his tongue, for not a word doth he advance in
vindication, nor seeks to clear himself of blame,
which surely innocence would have done.

MORANZONE. A second time I ask the ques-
tion, — have you proofs?

586

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

CHIEF JUSTICIAR [Showing the dagger]. This
dagger, which the soldiers last night tore all
bloody from his blood-stained hands. Need we
better proof?

MORANZONE [ToJces the dagger and approaches the
duchess]. Have I not seen a dagger much like
this hanging at your Grace’s girdle? [The duchess
shudders, bid without answering.] Let me con-
verse with this youth, who is in such peril of his
life, for a few moments.

CHIEF justiciar. With much pleasure. Sir!
And may you bring him to a frame of mind when
he will unburden his heart of its load of guilt.
[MORANZONE goes over to guido, and takes his hand.]

MORANZONE [Whispers]. She did it! I could see
it in her eyes! Canst think that I should suffer
thy father’s son to be dragged to the scaffold
by this woman? Even as her Consort sold thy
father, will she now do with thee.

GUIDO. Count Moranzone, I did it, and I alone.
You may rest content, my father is avenged.

MORANZONE. Enough, enough, I know thou
didst not do it; else had thy father’s dagger, not
this woman’s plaything, fulfilled the work. Look,
how she gazes at us! By God, the marble mask
shall down; before all the world will I arraign her
for this murder.

GUIDO. You must never do so.

MORANZONE. Be sure of this, I will.

GUIDO. Better say no word of it, my Lord.

MORANZONE. Why not? An she be guiltless
she can prove it; if guilty, she must die.

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

687

GUIDO. And what am I to do?

MORANZONE. Thou or I — one of us twain is to
toll the truth here and now.

GUIDO. The truth is, — I did the deed.

MORANZONE. We will see what our good
Duchess answers.

GUIDO. Nay, I will tell all right out.

MORANZONE. ’Tis well said, Guido. On her
own head fall the consequences of her outrage,
not on thine! Did she not deliver thee to the
guard?

GUIDO. Yea, she did.

MORANZONE. Well then, avenge thy father’s
death on her! She was wife of the false Judas!

GUIDO. Yea, she was!

MORANZONE. Now, mcthinks, no further urging
is needed, albeit yesterday thou wast childishly
discouraged and faint-hearted.

GUIDO. Faint-hearted though I was yesterday,
I will no more be so to-day, be sure of that.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Doth he confess?

GUIDO. My Lord, I will confess, — that a cruel
murder hath been committed.

FIRST BURGHER. Now, look at that; he hath a
gentle heart and will know naught o’ murder; so
they will let him go free anon.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. And that is all?

GUIDO. Nay, I say more than that, — I say, the
man doth mortal sin who sheds man’s blood.

SECOND BURGHER. He should go say that to the
headsman; ’tis a good word.

GUIDO. Last boon of all, I do beseech the Court

588

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

to grant me leave frankly to expound the riddle
of the murder, lighten this darkness, and name
the guilty one who yesternight slew the Duke
with this dagger.

cmEF JUSTiaAR. The boon is granted.

BEATRICE Nay, nay, he must not

speak; need we any further proofs? Was he not
seized at n^ht within the Palace in the bloody
garb of guilt?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR [Showing her the Code]. Your
Grace may look yourself how the Law doth
stand.

BEATRICE [PuskiTig the hook away]. Bethink
you. Sir Justiciar, is it not most likely a man of
his sort might here in presence of all the people
defame and vilify my late Consort, the City, th«,
City’s honour, mayhap even mine own self?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. But the Law, your Grace I

BEATRICE. He must not speak; but with a gag
in his mouth climb the ladder to the headsman’s
block.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. But the Law!

BEATRICE. No Law binds us, ’tis we bind others
by the Law.

MORANZONB. Sir Justiciar, you will never suffer
such injustice here.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Nay, spare your reproaches.
Count Moranzone. 'Twere sure a bad ensample,
noble Lady, to turn away the Law from the right
path; by such arbitrary power anarchy might well
creep in to disturb our golden-balanced mean,
and wrong win unrighteous victoiy.

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS- OF PADUA

589

BARDi. Your Grace cannot hinder the course
of Justice.

BEATRICE. You prcach of Justice and brag of
the Law! Methinks, ye proud lords of Padua,
the man who hurts your goods or pockets, who
would but minish your monstrous incomings by
the worth of one poor ferrj'^ toll, you would be far
enow from giving Mm the benefit of the tardy
Law’s delay, with the same gentle patience ye do
recommend to me.

BARDI. Your Grace doth wrong the Nobles.

BEATRICE. Nay, methinks I do not. Which of
you all, an he found a thief at night in his house,
stowing away some worthless trash amid his rags,
would enter on discussions, and not call in a con-
stable out of hand, to hale him straight to gaol?

So would ye, finding the villain with my hus-
band’s blood upon his hands, have haled him be-
fore his judge, that his head might be struck off.

GUIDO. God'

BEATRICE. Sir Justiciar, speak!

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. It may not be, yoim Grace.
The laws of Padua are strict upon the point: even
a common murderer hath the right thereafter to
plead his case with his own mouth.

MORANZONE. Oh lighteous Judge 1 Oh right-
eous law!

BEATRICE. Now are ye making triumph all too
soon with your Law and Right! This is no ordi-
nary, basebom murderer, Justiciar, but a bold
outlaw, a traitor to the State, caught in open re-
bellion. The man who murders the Ruler of the

690

THE PliAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act i>

State, murders the State as well, doth make all
women widows, and all children orphans; so is he
the public enemy of the State, as much as though
he came with menacing artillery, in league with
the hostile levies of Venice, and rattled at the
gates of our Stronghold. Nay, more perilous is he
to the State than serried spears and thundering
cannon: for walls, gates, battlements, bastions,
and all such things as are wrought of mere brute
wood and stone, can be built up anew. But who
can raise up again the body of my dead Consort,
and bid him live and laugh?

MAFFio. By Saint Paul, they will surely, I ween,
forbid him the right to speak.

JEPPO. Yea, she hath gotten him fast hand and
foot. But listen what more she hath to say.

BEATRICE. Wherefore bestrew ye now Padua’s
head with ashes, hang mourning banners out in all
her streets, let every citizen go clad in sober
black, — ^but ere we make us ready for the funeral
feast, we must bethink us of the accursed mur-
derer’s hand, that hath wrought ruin on our State.
Away with him straight to yon narrow house,
whence no sound returns, where with a pinch of
dust Death stops the lying mouths of men.

GUIDO. Let go there, constables. Hear me.
Justiciar! Thou canst as little check the fetter-
less Ocean, the winter whirlwind, the Alpine
hurricane, as silence me. Yea, should your sol-
diers drive their swords into my throat, yet shall
each wound’s gaping mouth with furious tongue
cry out to Heaven.

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

591

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Violence of this sort doth
naught avail; so long as the tribunal grants thee
not legitimate authority of free speech, thy words
be but spoken to the winds. [The duchess smiles,
GUIDO falls back with a despairing look.]

Now, your Grace, I and these wise Justicera do
propose with your good leave to withdraw us into
another chamber, and there consider this hard
case of law, and examine statutes and precedents.

BEATRICE. Go, Worthy Justiciar, search the
statute well, and be not at the beck and call of
the slandering knave.

MORANZONE. Go, worthy Justiciar, search your
own conscience, and send no man to death un-
heard.

[Exeunt chief justiciar and colleagues.]

BEATRICE. Hold thy peace, thou evil genius of
my life; for the second time thou com’st betwixt
us. This time, I ween. Sir, ’tis my turn.

GUIDO. I will not die till I have spoken out.

BEATRICE. Die, and take thy secret along with
thee to the grave!

GUIDO. Art still that same Duchess of Padua?

BEATRICE. I am what thou hast made me ; look
and see, I am thy creature.

MAFFio. Look’ye, is she not like the white
tigress at Venice an Indian Sultan once sent the
Doge?

JEPPO. Hist, she can hear thy babble.

EXECUTIONER. My lad, I know not what thy
speaking can effect, now mine axe is come so nigh
thy neck; no words can blunt its edge. But seeing

592

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

it doth concern thee so nearly, I will hie me yonder
to the Churchman; the commoner folks aye call
him hither. I know of a surety, he hath a kind
heart.

GUIDO. He whose trade is death is courtlier
than all the rest.

EXECUTIONER. God have mercy on thee, I do
thee the last service on earth.

GUIDO. Sir Cardinal, in a Christian land, where
the pitying face of the Redeemer looks down from
the high seat of justice, shall a hxunan being die
without confession? If not, then let me reveal the
nightmare of my sins, so far as sin doth burden my
soul.

BEATRICE. A needless waste of time.

CARDINAL. Ah, my son, I have no influence
over the Justiciar. Mine office only begins when
doom hath been pronounced, to stir the wavering
sinner to repentance, that he may whisper in the
ear of Holy Church the secrets of a sin-laden
heart.

BEATRICE. As much as e’er thou wilt, may’st
speak at the confessional, till thy lips be outwear-
ied, but here thou shalt not so.

GUIDO. Reverend Father, you do bring me but
weak consolation.

CARDINAL. Nay, my son, the strong power of
the Church doth not end with this poor soap-bub-
ble world, whereof we, saith St. Jerome, are but
dust — ^for, an if the sinner die repentant, prayer
and our holy masses may do much to rescue his
soul from Purgatory.

ACT iv] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

593

BEATEiCE. An thou dost meet my husband in
Purgatory with a blood-red star over his heart,
tell him I send you to bear him company

GUIDO. Oh God!

MORANZONE. This is the woman thou didst
love, is’t not?

CARDINAL. How cruel is Your Grace toward
this man!

BEATRICE. Not half SO cruel as he was to yom
Grace.

CARDINAL. Yea truly, he did to death your
Consort.

BEATRICE. He did indeed!

CARDINAL. But mercy is the noblest preroga-
tive of Princes.

BEATRICE. I found no mercy, and I give none.
... He hath turned my heart into a stone,
sowed nettle spawn in the flowering mead, pois-
oned the wellspring of compassion in my heart,
and torn up loving-kindness by the roots; my life
is like a land of famine, wherefrom all good things
are utterly digged up. I am what thou hast made
me. [The duchess weeps.]

JEPPO. Strange she should so have loved the
wicked Duke.

MAFFio. Strange ’tis women love their mates,
and strange it is they love them not.

JEPPO. What a philosopher art thou, Petrucci!

MAFFIO. Why yes, I can beai- with equanimity
the ill-luck of other folks, — ^and that is philosophy.

BEATRICE. They tarry long, the greybeards, in
debate, bid them come, bid them come quick, else

594

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Uct iv

my heart will burst, so fiercely doth it beat; not
that I am so exceeding anxious to live, for God
wot, my life is not so jo5^ul, — but at any rate I
fain would not die without companions, nor fare
alone to hell.

Sir Cardinal, canst not here on my brow read a
word writ in scarlet letters, — the word ‘Revenge.’
. . . Bring water that I wash it out; it was
branded there yesternight — say, must I wear it
there by day. Cardinal? Oh, how it bums, and
doth consume my brain! Give me a knife, — no,
not that one, another, — that I may cut it out.

CARDINAL. It is but natural to rage against the
murderous hand of the malefactor who struck
dead your husband in his sleep.

BEATRICE. Ah, Cardinal, would I could bum
that hand off, — it will burn in the world to come.

CARDINAL. Our HoIy Church bids us forgive
our enemies.

BEATRICE. Forgive? what is that? there was no
foigiveness ever for me. Ha, they come at last!
Well, Sir Justiciar, well?

[The CHIEF JUSTICIAR enters.]

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Revcred and most exalted
our Liege Lady, long have we examined the knotty
point, and well pondered Your Grace’s words of
wisdom, — ^never wisdom spake from fairer lips.

BEATRICE. Get on, my Lord, and let be com-
pliments!

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Wc find, as duly demon-
strated to Your Grace, that whosoever, whether
by force or fraud, doth conspire against the person

ACT iv] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

595

of the Prince, is ipso facto outlawed and void of all
rights which appertain to other men, is a traitor
and an enemy of the people, whom any sword
may slay at will, without its wielder being called
into account; but an if he be brought before the
judgment seat, he must with dumb lips and all
humility submit him to his well-deserved fate, see-
ing he hath forfeited the right of free speech.

BEATRICE. I thank thee from my heart, your
law doth please me well. And so, I beg, finish
with the assassin, as is meet for him; for I am
weary of waiting, and the headsman is weary too.
What, is there aught more?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Yea, Your Grace, one thing
more. The man is a foreigner, no Paduan, and
owes no fealty to our Duke, more than Nature
claims of everyone. He may be accused of mani-
fold treasons, whereof the penalty is certain death,
yet hath he right of free speech in open session
’fore the people; nay, the Court will urgently call
on him, in accord with proper precedent, to defend
his life, to the end his City may not, justly in-
censed, charge unjust judgment ’gainst our State,
whereby a War might well be brought upon us.
So ruthful are Padua’s laws toward the stranger
that sojoumeth within her walls!

BEATRICE. Is he, as member of our Household,
a stranger in the city?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Only when he hath served
seven years here, can he become a citizen of Padua.

GUIDO. I thank thee from my heart, your law
doth please me well.

096

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

SECOND BUBGHEE. Law, I like not Law; an
there were no Law, would be no transgressors o’
the Law, and folk would live virtuous.

FIRST BURGHER. Yea, verily, that is a wise
word, it carries a man far.

USHER. Yea, to the gallows, rascal!

BEATRICE. Is this the law?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Verily ’tis the Law of the
Land, noble Lady.

BEATRICE. Show me the book; yea, there it
stands in blood-red characters.

JEPPO. Look at our Duchess!

BEATRICE. Accursed law, ah, could I but tear
thee from the code of state, as now I tear thee from
this book. [Tears the leaf mt.] Count Bardi,
prithee, a word ! Are you loyal? Then get me a
horse, have it in waiting at my door, for I must
ride in hot haste to Venice.

BARDI. You are for Venice, Duchess?

BEATRICE. Say naught of it! Go, go speedily.

[Exit BARDI.]

A word more. Sir Justiciar. If, as thou say’st,
this is law in Padua, — and of the rightness of thy
judgment I raise no doubt, albeit right in such a
case is bitter wrong, — ^yet can I not, by virtue of
mine office, adjourn this trial to a later time?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. A blood process can never be
postponed.

BEATRICE. I will not Stay to hearken to the fel-
low insulting me with his rough answers. Besides,
all important duties do await at the Palace. At-
tend me, gentlemen!

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

697

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Noblc Lady, you may not
depart hence, until the accused is condemned or
acquitted.

BEATRICE. May not. Sir Justiciar! Pray, by
what right dost put obstacles in my way? Am I
not Mistress here in Padua, Liege Lady of the
State?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. On this ground, — seeing you
are source and fount of life and eke of death,
wherefrom Right doth flow like a mighty river,
Right is dried up, an you be not present, and hath
no proper existence; therefore must you remain.

BEATRICE. Thou wouldst keep me here against
my will.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Let not your will go against
the Law.

BEATRICE. And if I force my way from out the
Court?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. You cannot force the Justic-
ers to clear the way.

BEATRICE. I will not Stay. [Rises from her seal.]

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Is the Doorkeeper there?
Let him step forward. [Doorkeeper comes forward.]
Thou knowest what doth belong to thine office!
[The Doorkeeper shuts the doors of the Hall of Jus-
tice, which are to left of stage, and kneels down, as
the DUCHESS and her train approach.]

DOORKEEPER. In all humility I do beseech
Your Grace, let not the doing of my duty become
discourtesy, my unwelcome office be made a
grievous burden. By virtue of the right that mak-
eth you a Princess I stand here; were I to break

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act it

the law, Your Grace, I should be breaking your
commandment and not my own.

BEATEICB. Is none amongst you, most honour-
able Sirs, will toss this prating windbag from my
path?

MAFFio [Dravdng his sword\. I will!

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Count Maffio, be heedful
what you do, [to jeppo] and you too, my Lord; the
first man that draws his sword, were’t only against
a constable, dies before night.

BEATRICE. Put up your swords, gentlemen; I
am resolved to hear the man. [Goes back to the
throne.]

MAFFIO. Well, thou hast got thine enemy in
thy clutches now,

CHIEF JUSTICIAR [Taking up the hour-glass].
Guido Ferranti, whiles here the sand runs in this
hour-glass, ’tis allowed thee to speak freely, but no
longer.

GUIDO. It is long enow.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Thou standest at the very
extremest verge of death; by thy salvation, speak
only the plain, undiluted truth. Naught else will
stead thee.

GUIDO. An I speak untruth, deliver thou my
body to the headsman.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR [Turning the hour-glass]. Si-
lence all, whiles the prisoner speaks.

USHER. Ho there, silence in the Court!

GUIDO. My Lord Justiciar, revered Judge of
this high Court, scarce know I how to begin what
I have to say, so strange and horrible seems the

ACT IV] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA 699

tale to me. First, let me declare mine origin and
birth. I am the bold Lorenzo’s son, the Duke,
who with hideous treachery was bewrayed by a
villain, — whilom Duke in this same town of
Padua.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Bewarc, ’twill help thee
naught to defame the Prince who now lies in his
coffin.

MAFFio. By Saint James, why he is hereditary
Lord then of Parma.

JEPPO. I aye took him to be noble born.

GUIDO. I do confess that, with a view to right-
eous revenge, most righteous revenge upon a mur-
derer, I took service at the Duke’s Court, sat with
him at meat, drank of his wine and was his boon-
companion; so much I do confess, — only this fur-
ther, that I held my hand till he gave into my
keeping the dearest secrets of his life, till he clung
to me and in all ways trusted me, as once my noble
father trusted him. I held my hand until — [To
the headsman.] Thou man of blood, turn not thine
axe toward me before the time; who knows wheth-
er my death-hour be really come. Is mine the
only neck among folk present here?

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Swift runs the sand in the
hour-glass, be quick and tell us of the Duke’s mur-
der.

GUIDO. To be brief : yesternight ’twas midnight
when I scaled the Palace walls with a stout rope,
bent on avenging my father’s murder; such was
my purpose, I do own it. Sir. Thus much will I
confess, and this to boot: when cautiously I had

600

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act iv

climbed the steps that lead to the Duke’s sleeping-
room, and was stretching forth my hand to the
scarlet curtain, that shook and shuddered in the
storm, just then the white moon shone out in the
sky and flooded the dark chamber with a silver
sheen, the night lit up its tapers for my service.
Asleep lay the hated Duke, still cursing in his
dreams, and at the thouglit of my father’s slaying,
— ^my father whom he bartered to the block, sold
to the scaffold, I pierced the traitor’s heart with
this dagger here, which by mere chance 1 found
there in the room.

BEATRICE [Springing up]. Oh!

GUIDO [Speaking fast and excitedly]. I stabbed
the Duke. Now, Justiciar, an I may yet crave one
boon, let me see the sun never more, when he
shines upon the misery of this sorrowful world.

CHIEF JUSTICIAR. Thy wish be granted thee.
Die to-night! Lead him forth! Come ye with
me. Sirs!

[GUIDO is led off; as he goes, the duchess throws
wide her arms and rushes across the stage towards
him.]

BEATRICE. Guido! Guido! [Falls in a swoon.]

End op Act IV

ACT V

A Dungeon in the State Prison at Padua

GUIDO lies {left) on a camp bed; beside him a table
and on it a beaker. Five soldiers are drinking and
dicing at a stone table in the corner; one of them has
a lantern hanging from his halberd. A torch is
stuck in the wall, above guido’s head. In back-
ground two barred windows, and betmen them (mid-
dle) the door, all opening onto a passage without.
Stage dimly lighted.

FIRST SOLDIER [Throwing the dice]. Six, six
again, Pietro lad'

SECOND SOLDIER. Deuce and all, Lieutenant,
I’ll play no more with thee; else shall I lose all I
have.

THIRD SOLDIER. All but thy wits; need’st have
no fear about them.

SECOND SOLDIER. He Can’t rob me o’ my
wits.

THIRD SOLDIER. Nay, because thou hast none
to lose.

SOLDIERS [Laughing loudly]. Ha! ha! ha!

FIRST SOLDIER. Hist, ye will wake the prisoner,
he’s asleep.

SECOND SOLDIER. What matter? He’ll sleep
long and sound enow, once he’s buried. My word
on’t, he’d be glad if only we could wake him, when
he’s laid i’ the grave.

601

602

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act v

THIRD SOLDIER. Not he, for when he wakes up
there, ’tis the last day come.

SECOND SOLDIER. Yea, he hath brought him-
self to a pretty pass truly; why, let me tell ye, — ^to
kill one of us, who be mere flesh and blood, is
against orders, but to slay a Duke, that is against
the laws.

FIRST SOLDIER. But he was a cursed bad Duke.

SECOND SOLDIER. Then should he have had no
truck with him; the man who goes with bad folk,
runs risk of being fouled with their badness.

THIRD SOLDIER. Why, o’ course he doth. How
old is the prisoner?

SECOND SOLDIER. Old enow to commit follies,
and not old enow to be wise and sensible.

FIRST SOLDIER. He Can be any age at that rate.

SECOND SOLDIER. They say the Duchess would
fain reprieve him.

FIRST SOLDIER. Truly?

SECOND SOLDIER. Yca, it seems she appealed
to the Chief Justiciar, but he refused.

FIRST SOLDIER. But I always thought, Pietro,
the Duchess could do anything.

SECOND SOLDIER. For sure, — why, look’ye how
she’s made; I don’t know a finer woman.

SOLDIERS. Ha! ha! ha!

FIRST SOLDIER. I meant that our Duchess
could order anything and have it done.

SECOND SOLDIER. Not so; for now he’s deliv-
ered up to his Judges, and they will take good care
to see him executed, they and Big Hugo, the heads-
man. But once his head's off, then the Duchess

ACT v]

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

603

can pardon him, an it suits her fancy; there’s no
law to hinder that.

FIRST SOLDIER. I don’t suppose after all that
Big Hugo, as ye call him, when the last comes to
the last, will get the chance to do his duty on him;
this Guido comes of a noble house, so the laws
allow him to take poison, an such be his pleasure.

THIRD SOLDIER. ’Pon honour, drinking poison
is a sorry sort o’ pleasure.

SECOND SOLDIER. What kind o’ a thing is this
poison, eh?

FIRST SOLDIER. Why, poison, man, that kills
ye dead.

SECOND SOLDIER. What sort o’ thing is’t ex-
actly, poison?

FIRST SOLDIER. A drink, like water, only not
quite so wholesome. Would’st like to taste and
try, there’s some i’ the beaker yonder.

SECOND SOLDIER. ’Zounds, an it be not whole-
some, I’ll not touch it.

THIRD SOLDIER. Now, an he won’t drink it?

FIRST SOLDIER. Then they’ll put him to death.

THIRD SOLDIER. But an he do drink it?

FIRST SOLDIER. 'Then will he die.

SECOND SOLDIER. A damned poor choice for
him; well, ’tis to be hoped he’ll make a wise
one.

[Knocking heard at the door.]

FIRST SOLDIER. Go See, who ’tis.

[Third soldier goes and looks through the judas.]

THIRD SOLDIER. A woman.

FIRST SOLDIER. Is she a trim wench?

604

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act v

THIBD SOLDIER. I Can’t scc, Lieutenant, she
wears a mask.

FIRST SOLDIER. Only right fair or downright
ugly women hide their faces. Let her come in!
[The soldier opens the door and the duchess enters,
masked and cloaked.]

BEATRICE [To the third soldier]. Are you the
Officer on guard?

FIRST SOLDIER [Stepping forward]. I am, noble
Lady.

BEATRICE. I must spcak alone with the prisoner.

FIRST SOLDIER. Alas! that is impossible. [Tiie
DUCHESS hands him a ring, he looks at it and re-
turns it with a bow; then orders the men.] Withdraw!

[Exeunt the other soldiers.]

BEATRICE. Your mcn are a trifle rough. Sir
Officer.

FIRST SOLDIER. They mean no harm.

BEATRICE. In a few minutes I shall be coming
again; as I go down the corridor then, see they
do not lift my mask.

FIRST SOLDIER. You need have no fear, noble
Lady.

BEATRICE. I have especial reasons for wishing
no one to see my face.

FIRST SOLDIER. With this ring, noble Lady, you
may go in and out at your good pleasure; ’tis the
Duchess’s ring.

BEATRICE. Now leave us alone. [Just as the
Officer is on the point of going.] One moment more.
For what hovn is the execution fixed?

FIRST SOLDIER. At twelve o’clock, noble Lady,

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

603

we are to lead him forth according to orders, but
he will scarce surely wait for us; in all likelihood
he will take a sip of the poison before then. Men
are sore afraid of the headsman.

BEATRICE. Is that poison there?

FIRST SOLDIER. Yea, noble Lady, very power-
ful poison.

BEATRICE. Now, prithee go.

FIRST SOLDIER. ’Zounds, what a lovely hand!
Who may she be, I wonder? Mayhap a woman
who hath loved him. [Exit.]

BEATRICE [Removing her mask]. At last! Now
can he easily escape, cloaked and masked; we are
almost of a size, no one will recognise him. Mine
own fate I care little for. So long as he doth not
curse me, albeit he forsake me, all is well; but
will he curse me? he hath every right to. ’Tis
eleven now, they come not ere twelve; what will
they say, when they sec the nest empty? [Waliks
to the table.] So that is poison. How wonderful
that here in this liquor lies the key of all life’s
wisdom. [Takes up the beaker.] It smells of pop-
pies; how well do I remember, when I was a child
in Sicily, I plucked a wealth of scarlet poppies in
the com, and wove a garland of them; even mine
uncle, the grim John of Naples, laughed. I knew
not that poppy juice can choke the source of life,
can stop its pulse and freeze the bloOd, till men
come and hale off the poor corpse and cast it
in the grave, — ^yea, the dead body, but the soul
fares either to heaven or hell. Whither will mine
go?

606

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act y

[Takes the torch from the wall, and goes up to the
pallet bed.]

How soft he sleeps, like a boy outwearied with
play. Ah, would that I could sleep so peacefully,
but I dream dreams. [Bending over him.] Poor
lad, shall I kiss him? No, my lips would scorch
him, sick and sorry as he is of love. But his white
neck shall surely ’scape the headsman; that I have
provided for. This night he shall fly from Padua,
— ^and therefore I am glad. You are right cun-
ning, Sir Justiciar, but you are not half so cunning
as I, — ^and therefore I am glad. Oh God, how I
loved him, and what a bloody flower hath blos-
somed therefrom. [Returns to the table.] Now,
shall I drink this liquor, and so make an end?
Were it not better to wait till Death come to find
me in my bed with his horrid following, — re-
morse, disease, eld and affliction? I know not an
there be much pain to suffer. ... I am so young,
so young, to go to my death now, yet it must
needs be so. But why? why die? To-night he
doth escape, so that his blood falls not upon my
head. Nay, nay, I must die, I am laden with
guilt, and therefore must I die; he loves me not,
and therefore must I die; I had died happier, an
he had kissed me, but that he will not do. Little
I knew him ; I deemed he would have denounced
me to the Judge; we women never know our dear-
est, till they forsake us.

[Bell begins to toll.] Hateful bell, why dost thou
cry like a brazen-mouthed bloodhound hungering
after his life; hush, thou dost cry in vain. He

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

607

stirs, — quick! [Seizes the beaker.] Oh love, love,
love, I never thought to pledge thee so.

[Drinks the poison and puts down the beaker
behind her on the table. The noise atvakens guido;
he starts up, but does not see what she has done.
Silence reigns for a minute, while they gaze at each
other.]

I am not come to crave for pardon now, I know
I stand outside of all forgiveness, a guilty, an
accursed woman! Enough! I have confessed al-
ready to the Justicers the exceeding burden of my
sins. They would not listen to me. Some said, I
had invented the tale to save thee, since thou
wast in league with me; others, that women
played with pity as they did with men; others
again, that grief for my husband had robbed me
of my senses. They would not hear me, and when
I swore on the Book, I was sent to the physician.
Ten against one; ten they are, thy life is in their
power. Folk call me Duchess of Padua, though
whether I be so still, I cannot tell. I have par-
doned thee, and they have reversed my act, de-
claring ’tis treason what I have decreed, — mayhap
it is. In an hour they will be here to hale thee
from thy cell and bind thy hands behind thy back
and drag thee to the block, — I have forerun them.
Here is the signet-ring of Padua, it will bring thee
safe past the watch; now take mask and cloak,
they have orders to ask no questions. Once through
the prison doors, turn to the left, and at the second
bridge horses await thee — ^at mom thou shalt be
at Venice. [i4 pause.] Thou wilt not speak, wilt

608

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE Iact v

not once cxnse me, ere thou goest? Thou hast
good right to.

Dost not comprehend that ’twixt thee and the
scaffold scarce so much sand in the hour-glass is
left to run as a child’s fist holds. Here is the
ring, the hand is clean; no blood cleaves to it.
Have no fear! Wilt thou not take the ring?

GUIDO [Takes it and kisses it]. Willingly, noble
Lady.

BEATRICE. And leave Padua?

GUIDO. How, leave Padua?

BEATRICE. This vciy night.

GUIDO. This very night?

BEATRICE. Thank thy God therefor.

GUIDO. Then I may live. Ne’er did life seem
so alluring to me as now.

BEATRICE. Why dost delay, my Guido? Here
is the cloak, at the bridge a horse, — ^at the toll-
house yonder by the second bridge. Why wilt
thou linger here? Can thine ear not catch the
dreadful bell, which at each stroke shortens thy
young life yet another minute? Fly, fly quickly I

GUIDO. He comes not speedily enough.

BEATRICE. Who?

GUIDO [Calmly], Why, the headsman

BEATRICE. Nay, nay, say not that.

GUIDO. He alone can bring me out of Padua.

BEATRICE. What, thou dar’st, dar’st burden my
over-burdened soul with two dead men; one, one
is enough! For when I stand before my God eye
to eye, thou must not, thou shaJt not, with a red
thread about thy white neck, step forward and

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

609

accuse me, so that the very devils that howl in
hell should pity me. Wilt thou be harder-hearted
than the devils God banishes from heaven!

GUIDO. I stay here, noble Lady.

BEATRICE. Nay, nay, thou canst not. Dost
not understand I have less power now in Padua
than any girl. They will kill me. I have just
seen the scaffold in the open Square; already the
rabble was pressing round it with cruel jests and
lust of horrors, as though it were the stage of some
masquerade and not the melancholy throne of
death. Oh Guido, thou must fly.

GUIDO. Yea, by the hand of death, but not by
thine.

BEATRICE. Oh, thou art pitiless, as pitiless now
as alway. Nay, Guido, thou must away.

GUIDO. I shall remain, noble Lady.

BEATRICE. Thou must not, Guido, it would be
so dreadful else, that e’en the stars, amazed and
horrified, would fall from heaven, that the moon
would be stopped and darkened in her path, and
the sun cease to shine upon the earth that saw
thy death.

GUIDO. I will not give way.

BEATRICE [Wringing her hands]. Thou dost not
know this, that once the Justicers are come, I am
powerless to shield thee from the axe. As if I had
not done outrage enow already ! Will one sin not
suflice? Must it engender yet another sin worae
than the first crime? Oh God, shut up the womb
that mothers sin, dry it up, and never more shall
blood stain my hand, as it did but now.

610 t5e plays of OSCAR WILDE [act v

GUIDO [Taking her hand]. How, am I fallen so
I'^w, I should begrudge to die for thee?

BEATRICE [Dratving away her hand]. For mef
My life is a worthless thing, that hath been tossed
out into the street mud of the world. Thou must
not die for me, thou shalt not, Guido; I am a sinful
woman.

GUIDO. Let them who know not what tempta-
tion is, let them who have not walked like us in
the furnace-fire of passion, and whose life is tedious
and colourless, in a word all them, if such there
be, who have never loved, let them cast stones
at us.

BEATRICE. Woe is me, ah, woe is mef

GUIDO [Throwing himself ai her feel]. Thou art
my life, my highest, truest joy ! Oh golden hair,
oh purple mouth, oh cheeks framed to allure man’s
love! Incarnate image of loveliness 1 To thee
doing homage, I forget all that hath been; to thee
doing homage, my soul touches thine; to thee
doing homage, I feel myself a God. Albeit my
body come to the headsman’s block, yet doth my
love live for aye.

[The DUCHESS holds her hands before her face,
GUIDO draws them away.] Lift the drooping cur-
tains of thine eyes, that I may look in them and
say, — I love thee, and never more than when
Death presses his cold lips betwixt us. I love
thee, Beatrice, — thine answer? Woe is me! lean
well endure the headsman, but not this silence; say
thou lovest me. This one word, and Death hath
no sting left; but an thou say it not, fifty thousand

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

611

deaths are then a mercy. Thou art cruel, thou
dost not love me.

BEATRICE. I have no right to. Love’s hands of
innocence are stained with blood vilely shed, — here
on the ground is blood, sprinkled there by me.

GUIDO. Nay, love, not by thee; only a devil
tempted thee.

BEATRICE [Springing up]. No, no, each one is
his own devil, and himself turns the world into a
hell.

GUIDO. Then sink Paradise to Tartarus! For
now I hold this world a heaven a brief while. I
love thee, Beatrice.

BEATRICE. Tainted with the plague of sin, I am
not worthy of thee.

GUIDO. By the Redeemer, the sin was mine, if
sin there were. I nurtured murder in my heart,
sweetened my meat therewith, flavoured my wine,
in thought I struck down the accursed Duke an
hundred times a day. Had the man died only half
so often as I wished. Death would have been stalk-
ing for ever through the house. Murder would
have never rested. But thou, Beloved, thou who
looked with ruth upon the whipped hound, thou at
whose gaze children’s faces brightened, because
where thou didst pass, sunshine went with thee,
thou gentle angel of white, holy purity, what was
it men call thy sin?

BEATRICE. What was it? Oft it seems to me a
dream, an evil dream sent by an evil demon; but
then, I see the corpse within its coffin, and know it
is no dream, know that my hand is red with blood;

612

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act v

and my poor soul, on the voyage to a love’s haven
’gainst the wild tempest of this mad world, hath
wrecked her bark on the rock of sin. What was
it, thou dost ask, — only a murder, naught else
but murder, horrid murder.

GUIDO. Nay, never, never; ’twas but the pain-
ful blossom of thy love, that in a moment burst
into bloom, and in a moment’s passion bare a
bloody fniit, such as in thought myself had
plucked a thousand times. My mind was full of
murder, but my arm was weak; thy arm com-
mitted murder, but thy mind was innocent. I
love thee for it, Beatrice; who refuses pity for thy
distress, may he find no compassion in Heaven.
Kiss me, sweet! [Tries to kiss her.]

BEATRICE. Nay, nay, thy mouth is pure, mine
sullied; my paramour was murder, and sin slept
in my bed. Guido, an thou lov’st me, fly, fly; for
every moment gnaws at thy life like a deadly
worm. Beloved, fly, and if in later days thou dost
remember me, think of me as of one who loved
thee better than all else in the world; as of a wo-
man, Guido mine, who was fain to offer up her life
for her love, and thereby slew her love. — ^What is’t
now? the bell hath fallen dumb, and up the stairs I
hear the tread of aimed men coming.

GUIDO [Aside] . The signal for the watch to hale
me forth.

BEATRICE. Why hath it stopped ringing?

GUIDO. Must thou know? For this side the
grave, my life ends here, — beyond the tomb we
shall see each other again.

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

613

BEATRICE. It is not yet too late; fly hence, the
horse stands ready by the bridge, there yet is time.
Away, away, thou must not tarry longer.

[Noise of soldiers in the corridor.]

A VOICE FROM WITHOUT. Make way for the
Chief Justiciar of Padua!

[Through the barred mndow the Chief Justiciar is
seen passing along the passage, torch-bearers preced-
ing him.]

BEATRICE. It is too late.

A VOICE FROM WITHOUT. Make way for the
Headsman!

BEATRICE [Throwing herself down]. Oh!

[The Executiorxr, axe on shoulder, appears in the
corridor. Monks carrying tapers behind him.]

GUIDO. Farewell, my love, I drink the poison
here. I fear not the headsman; only this, I will
not die upon the block.

BEATRICE. Oh!

GUIDO. Nay, rather here, here in thy arms, be-
twixt two kisses, — farewetl! [Goes to the table, and
seizes the cup.] What, art empty? [Tosses it on
the floor.] Oh niggardly gaoler, thou dost b^[rudge
even thy poison.

BEATRICE [In a weak voice]. No blame belongs
to him.

GUIDO. Oh God, hast thou drunk it, Beatrice!
tell me, thou hast not done that !

BEATRICE. An I were to lie, there bums a fire
at my heart that will soon proclaim the truth.

GUIDO. Traitorous love, why didst leave me
never a drop over?

614

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act v

BEATRICE. Nay, nay, there was death only for
me in the cup.

GUIDO. Let me taste the dainty poison from
thy lips; mayhap some still lingers there.

BEATRICE. Thou art not to die, thou has shed
no blood, thou art not to die; ’tis I have shed
blood, and I must die. Stands not the word writ;
Blood for blood? Who said so? I cannot remem-
ber.

GUIDO. Wait for me, our souls will depart
together.

BEATRICE. Nay, live! There be many women
left in the world ready for love, not murder, for
thy sake.

GUIDO. Thee only do I love.

BEATRICE. That is no good ground for dying.

GUIDO. An if we die together, why cannot we
rest together in one tomb?

BEATRICE. The grave is but a narrow marriage
bed.

GUIDO. It will suffice for us.

BEATRICE. They shall bedeck it with stiff cere-
cloth and bitter herbs; for roses, methinks, spring
not in the grave, and if any there be, they are all
withered, since the Duke died.

GUIDO. Ah Beatrice, thy mouth wears roses
that do defy Death.

BEATRICE. Will not my mouth, whenas we lie
in the grave, fall all to dust, thy bright eyes shrink
to blind holes, and worms, our marriage-guests,
gnaw at thy heart?

GUIDO. What matter? Death doth react on

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

615

love, — ^and through love’s eternal majesty I die
with thee.

BEATRICE. But the grave is dark, the tomb is
dark; wherefore must I go first to light the tapers
ere thou come. Nay, nay, I will not die, will not
die. Beloved, thou art strong, and young and
brave! Defend me when the Angel of Death
draws near, and wrestle with him for me! [Push-
ing GUIDO forward.] I will kiss thee, when thou
hast vanquished him. Hast thou no way to stay
the poison that doth rage within me? Are there
no rivers left in all Italy? Bring me a beaker of
water and put out this burning fire I

GUIDO. Oh God!

BEATRICE. Why didst thou never tell me that
in Italy all is desert diyness, — no water anywhere,
only fire?

GUIDO. Beloved!

BEATRICE. Send for the physician, but not for
him who staunched my husband’s blood. Fetch
a pliysician instantly! There is for every poison
an antidote, he will sell it us for a great price. Tell
him, for one short hour of life Padua shall be his
guerdon. I will not die. I am sick to death.
Touch me not, poison gnaws at my vitals. I
never knew it was such pain to die. Life, me-
thought, had taken all the heart’s agony for itself.
It seems ’tis not so.

GUIDO. Accursed stars, quench ye your torches
in tears, and bid your mistress, the moon, to pale
her beams to-night.

BEATRICE. What do we here. Beloved? This

616

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act r

room is poorly furnished forth for a bridal cham-
ber. Come, let us begone at once. Where are
tbe horses? By now we should be half way to
Venice. How cold the night is! Let us ride
faster! Are not these our weddmg bells, Guido?

[Ouiside the Monks begin their chants.]

Music! It might be merrier; but melancholy is
now the fashion, — why I cannot tell. Why dost
weep? Do we not love each other? Naught else
is needed. Death, what seek’st thou here? Thou
wert never asked to this feast; away, thou dost
intrude. I tell thee, I drank thy health in wine,
and not in poison. They lied who said I liad
drunk up thy poison; it was spilt on the ground,
like my husband’s blood, — thou hast come too late.

GUIDO. There’s nothing here, sweetheart ; these
be but unsubstantial phantoms.

BEATRICE. Death, why dost thou tarry here?
Go to the upper chamber, there stands prepared
for thee the cold meats of my Consort’s funeral
feast; here ’tis a marriage banquet. 'Thou hast
gone astray. Beside, ’tis summer now, we need
not so fierce a fire; thou art scorching us. Guido,
bid the sextons have done with digging of this
empty grave. I will not be entombed therein. I
bum, consume, melt in the inward glow; canst do
naught to help me? Water, give me water, but
no more poison. — Ha, now the pain is past; how
strange, I feel no pain. Death is gone, how glad I
am thereof; methought he would fain part us.
Tell me this, Guido, art. sorry thou didst ever see
me?

ACT V] THE DUCHESS OF PADUA

617

GUIDO. What had my life been without thee?
In this dull, flat world many a man hath died,
waiting and wishii^ for such a moment as this, and
never found it.

BEATRICE. Thou art not sorry then? How
strange it seems!

GUIDO. Have I not fed mine eyes on beauty?
That is joy enow for a man’s life. I could jest for
very merriment; at many a feast I have sat sadder;
who can be sad at such a feast as this, where Death
and Love are our cupbearers? We are made one
in love and death.

BEATRICE . I have been guilty above all women,
and therefore punished above all women. What
dost truly think, — ’tis not possible, — can love wipe
away the blood from off my hands, pour balsam in
my wounds, heal my scars, and wash my scarlet
sins as white as snow? I have sinned much.

GUIDO. Who sins for love, sins not.

BEATRICE. I have sinned, and yet mayhap shall
I be forgiven. I have loved much.

[They kiss each other for the first time in this Act.
Suddenly the duchess springs up in a fearful death
spasm, tears at her clothing in her agony, and finally
falls back on her seat, her face wrung and distorted
tvith pain, guido takes the dagger from her girdle,
kills himself with it, then as he falls across her knees,
drags down the cloak hanging over the back of the
chair, and covers her completely with it. A short
pause. Then the trampling of soldiers in the corri-
dor, the door opens, the Chief Justiciar, the Execu-
tioner and the Watch enter, and see the black, muffled

618

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE [act v

Sharpe and guido lying athwart it. The Chief Justi-
ciar rushes forward and draws away the cloak from
the DUCHESS, whose countenance is now the marble
image of Peace, — showing that God has forgiven her.]

End op Act V

SALOME

A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH LANGUAGE INTO THE
ENQhl&K

SALOME

The Persons of the Plat

HEROD ANTIPAS (Tetrarch of Judaea)
JOKANAAN (the Prophet)

THE YOUNG SYRIAN (Captain of the Guard)
TIGELLINUS (a Young Roman)

A CAPPADOCIAN
A NUBIAN
FIRST SOLDIER
SECOND SOLDIER
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
JEWS, NAZARENES, ETC.

A SLAVE

NAAMAN (the Executioner)

HERODIAS (Wife of the Tetrarch)

SALOME (Daughter of Herodias)

THE SLAVES OF SALOME

SALOME

Scene — A great terrace in the Palace of herod,
set above the banqueting-hall. Some soldiers are
leaning over the balcony. To the right there is a
gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, an old
cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. The
moon is shining very brightly.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How beautiful is the Prin-
cess Salom^ to-night!

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Look at the moon.
How strange the moon seems ! She is like a woman
rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman.
One might fancy she was looking for dead things.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She has a strange look.
She is like a little princess who wears a yellow
veil, and whose feet are of silver. She is like a
princess who has little white doves for feet. One
might fancy she was dancing.

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. She is like a woman
who is dead. She moves very slowly.

[Noise in the banqueting-hall.]

FIRST SOLDIER. What an uproar! Wlio are
those wild beasts howling?

SECOND SOLDIER. The Jews. They are always
like that. They are disputing about their religion.

FIRST SOLDIER. Why do they dispute about
their religion?

SECOND SOLDIER. I cannot tell. They are al-

623

624

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

ways doing it. The Pharisees, for instance, say
that there are angels, and the Sadducees declare
that angels do not exist.

FIRST SOLDIER. I think it is ridiculous to dis-
pute about such things.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How beautiful is the Prin-
cess Salomd to-night!

THE PAGE OP HERODiAS. You are always look-
ing at her. You look at her too much. It is dan-
gerous to look at people in such fashion. Some-
thing terrible may happen.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She is Very beautiful to-
night.

FIRST SOLDIER. The Tctrarch has a sombre
aspect.

SECOND SOLDIER. Yes; he has a sombre aspect.

FIRST SOLDIER. He is looking at something.

SECOND SOLDIER. He is looking at some one.

FIRST SOLDIER. At whom is he looking?

SECOND SOLDIER. I cannot tell.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How pale the Princess is!
Never have I seen her so pale. She is like the
shadow of a white rose in a mirror of silver.

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. You must not look at
her. You look too much at her.

FIRST SOLDIER. Herodias has filled the cup of
the Tetrarch.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Is that the Queen Herodias,
she who wears a black mitre sewed with pearls,
and whore hair is powdered with blue dust?

FIRST SOLDIER. Yes; that is Herodias, th«
Tetrarch’s wife.

SALOMfi

625

SECOND SOLDIER. The Tetrarch is very fond of
wine. He has wine of three sorts. One which is
brought from the Island of Samothrace, and is
purple like the cloak of Caesar.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I have never seen Caesar.

SECOND SOLDIER. Another that comes from a
town called Cyprus, and is as yellow as gold.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I love gold.

SECOND SOLDIER. And the third is a wine of
Sicily. That wine is as red as blood.

THE NUBIAN. The gods of my country are very
fond. Twice in the year we sacrifice to them
young men and maidens; fifty young men and a
hundred maidens. But I am afraid that we never
give them quite enough, for they are very harsh to us.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. In my country there are no
gods left. The Romans have driven them out.
There arc some who say that they have hidden
themselves in the mountains, but I do not believe
it. Three nights I have been on the mountains
seeking them everywhere. I did not find them.
And at last I called them by their names, and they
did not come. I think they are dead.

FIRST SOLDIER. The Jews worship a God that
one cannot see.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I caimot understand that.

FIRST SOLDIER. In fact, they only believe in
things that one caimot see.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. That seems to me alto-
gether ridiculous.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. After me shall come
another mightier than I. I am not worthy so

626

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

much as to unloose the latchet of his shoes.
When he cometh, the solitary places shall be glad.
They shall blossom like the rose. The eyes of the
blind shall see the day, and the ears of the deaf
shall be opened. The suckling child shall put his
hand upon the dragon’s lair, he shall lead the
lions by their manes.

SECOND SOLDIER. Make him be silent. He is
always saying ridiculous things.

FIRST SOLDIER. No, no. He is a holy man.
He is very gentle, too. Every day, when I give
him to eat he thanks me.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Who is he?

FIRST SOLDIER. A prophet.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. What is his name?

FIRST SOLDIER. Jokanaan.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Whence comes he?

FIRST SOLDIER. From the desert where he fed
on locusts and wild honey. He was clothed in
camel’s hair, and round his loins he had a leathern
belt. He was very terrible to look upon. A great
multitude used to follow him. He even had dis-
ciples.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. What is he talking of?

FIRST SOLDIER. We Can never tell. Sometimes
he says things that affright one, but it is impos-
sible to understand what he says.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. May one see him?

FIRST SOLDIER. No. The Tetrarch has for-
bidden it.

THE YOUNG SYRUN. The Princess has hidden
her face behind her fan! Her little white hands

SALOMfi

627

are fluttering like doves that fly to their dove-
cotes. They are like white butterflies. They are
just like white butterflies.

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. What is that to you?
Why do you look at her? You must not look at
her. . . . Something terrible may happen.

THE CAPPADOCIAN [Pointing to the cistern]. What
a strange prison!

SECOND SOLDIER. It is an old cistern.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. An old cistem I That must
be a poisonous place in which to dwell!

SECOND SOLDIER. Oh no! For instance, the
Tetrarch’s brother, his elder brother, the first
husband of Herodias the Queen, was impri-
soned there for twelve years. It did not kill
him. At the end of the twelve years he had to
be strangled.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Strangled? Who dared to
do that?

SECOND SOLDIER [Pointing to the Executioner, a
huge Negro], That man yonder, Naaman.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. He wds not afraid?

SECOND SOLDIER. Oh no! The Tetrarch sent
him the ring.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. What ring?

SECOND SOLDIER. The death-ring. So he was
not afraid.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Yet it is a terrible thing to
strangle a king.

FIRST SOLDIER. Why? Kings have but one
neck, like other folk.

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I think it terrible.

1S28

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. The Princess is getting up!
She is leaving the table! She looks very troubled.
Ah, she is coming this way. Yes, she is coming
towards us. How pale she is! Never have I seen
her so pale.

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. I pray you not to look
at her.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She is like a dove that has
strayed. . . . She is like a narcissus trembhng in
the wind. . . . She is like a silver flower.

[Enter SALOMfi.]

SALOMf:. I will not stay. I cannot stay. Why
does the Tetrarch look at me all the while with
his mole’s eyes under his shaking eyelids? It is
strange that the husband of my mother looks at
me like that. I know not what it means. Of a
truth I know it too well.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. You have left the feast,
Princess?

SALOMfi. How sweet is the air here! I can
breathe here. Within there are Jews from Jeru-
salem who are tearing each other in pieces over
their foolish ceremonies, and barbarians who drink
and drink, and spill their wine on the pavement,
and Greeks from Sm5Tnawith painted eyes and
painted cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in col-
umns, and Egyptians silent and subtle, with long
nails of jade and russet cloaks, and Romans
brutal and coarse, with their uncouth jargon.
Ah! how I loathe the Romans! They are rough
and common, and they give themselves the airs of
noble lords.

SALOME

629

THE YOUNG STBiAN. Will you be seated, Prin-
cess?

THE PAGE OF HEBODiAS. Why do you Speak to
her? Oh! something terrible will happen. Why
do you look at her?

salomE. How good to see the moon! She is
like a little piece of money, a little silver flower.
She is cold and chaste. I am sure she is a virgin.
Yes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled herself.
She has never abandoned herself to men, like the
other goddesses.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. Behold! the Lord
hath come. The son of man is at hand. The cen-
tarrs have hidden themselves in the rivers, and
the nymphs have left the rivers, and are lying
beneath the leaves of the forest.

salom£. Who was that who cried out?

SECOND SOLDIER. Thc prophet. Princess.

salomE. Ah, the prophet! He of whom the
Tetrarch is afraid?

second soldier. We know nothing of that,
Princess. It was the prophet Jokanaan who cried
out.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Is it your pleasure that I
bid them bring your litter. Princess? The night
is fair in the garden.

salomE. He says terrible things about my
mother, does he not?

second soldier. We never understand what
he says. Princess.

SALOMfi. Yes ; he says terrible things about her.

[Enter a Slave.]

630

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

THE SLAVE. Princess, the Tetrarch prays you
to return to the feast.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Pardon me, Princess, but
if you return not some misfortune may happen.

SALOMfi. Is he an old man, this prophet?

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Piincess, it were better to
return. Suffer me to lead you in.

SALOMfi. This prophet ... is he an old man?

FIRST SOLDIER. No, Princess, he is quite young.

SECOND SOLDIER. One cannot be sure. There
are those who say he is Elias.

SALOMfi. Who is Elias?

SECOND SOLDIER. A prophet of this country in
bygone days, Princess.

THE SLAVE. What answer may I give the
Tetrarch from the Princess?

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. Rejoice not, 0 land
of Palestine, because the rod of him who smote
thee is broken. For from the seed of the serpent
shall come a basilisk, and that which is bom of it
shall devour the birds.

SALOMfi. What a strange voice ! I would speak
with him.

FIRST SOLDIER. I fear it may not be, Princess.
The Tetrarch does not suffer any one to speak
with him. He has even forbidden the high priest
to speak with him.

SALOMfi. I desire to speak with him.

FIRST SOLDIER. It is impossible. Princess.

SALOMfi. I will speak with him.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Would it not be better to
return to the banquet?

SALOMfi

631

SALOME. Bring forth this prophet.

[Exit the Slave.]

FIRST SOLDIER. We dare not, Princess.

SALOMfi [Approaching the cistern and looking
dotvn into it]. How black it is, down there! It
must be terrible to be in so black a hole! It is
like a tomb. . . . [To the soldiers.] Did you not
hear me? Bring out the prophet. I would look
on him.

SECOND SOLDIER. Princess, I beg you do not
require this of us.

SALOMfi. You are making me wait upon your
pleasure.

FIRST SOLDIER. Princess, our lives belong to
you, but we cannot do what you have asked of us.
And indeed, it is not of us that you should ask
this thing.

salom£ [Looking at the young Syrian]. Ah!

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Oh! what is going to
happen? I am sure that something terrible will
happen.

SALOMfi [Going up to the young Syrian]. Thou
wilt do this thing for me, wilt thou not, Narra-
both? Thou wilt do this thing for me. I have
ever been kind towards thee. Thou wilt do it for
me. I would but look at him, this strange prophet.
Men have talked so much of him. Often I have
heard the Tetrarch talk of him. I think he is
afraid of him, the Tetrarch. Art thou, even thou,
also afraid of him, Narraboth?

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. I fear him not. Princess;
there is no man I fear. But the Tetrarch has for*

632

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

mally forbidden that any man should raise the
cover of this well.

SALOME . Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narra-
both, and to-morrow when I pass in my litter be-
neath the gateway of the idol-sellers I will let fall
for thee a little flower, a little green flower.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss, I cannot, I cannot.

SALOMfi [Smiling], Thou wilt do this thing for
me, Narraboth. Thou knowest that thou wilt do
this thing for me. And on the morrow when I
shall pass in my litter by the bridge of the idol-
buyers, I will look at thee through the muslin
veils, I will look at thee, Narraboth, it may be I
will smile at thee. Look at me, Narraboth, look
at me. Ah! thou knowest that thou wilt do what
I ask of thee. Thou knowest it. ... I know
that thou wilt do this thing.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN [Signing to the third soldier].
Let the prophet come forth. . . . The Princess
Salom^ desires to see him.

SALOMfi. Ah!

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Oh! how Strange the
moon looks. Like the hand of a dead woman who
is seeking to cover herself with a shroud.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She has a strange aspect!
She is like a little princess, whose eyes are eyes of
amber. Through the clouds of muslin she is
smiling like a little princess.

[The prophet comes out of the cistern, salom£
looks at him and steps slowly back,]

JOKANAAN. Where is he whose cup of abomina-
tions is now full? Where is he, who in a robe of

SALOMfi

63S

silver shall one day die in the face of .all the peo-
ple? Bid him come forth, that he may hear the
voice of him who hath cried in the waste places
and in the houses of kings.

SALOMfi. Of whom is he speaking?

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. No one can tell, Princess.

JOKANAAN. Where is she who saw the images of
men painted on the walls, even the images of the
Chaldeans painted with colours, and gave herself
up unto the lust of her eyes, and sent ambassadors
into the land of Chaldaea.

SALOMfi. It is of my mother that he is speaking.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Oh, no Princess.

SALOMfi. Yes; it is of my mother that he is
speaking.

JOKANAAN. Where is she who gave herself unto
the Captains of Assyria, who have baldricks on
their loins, and crowns of many colours on their
heads? Where is she who hath given herself to
the young men of the Egyptians, who are clothed
in fine linen and hyacinth, whose shields are of
gold, whose helmets are of silver, whose bodies
are mighty? Go, bid her rise up from the bed of
her abominations, from the bed of her incestuous-
ness, that she may hear the words of him who
prepareth the way of the Lord, that she may re-
pent her of her iniquities. Though she will not
repent, but will stick fast in her abominations; go,
bid her come, for the fan of the Lord is in His hand.

SAiiOMfi. Ah, but he is terrible, he is terrible!

THE YOUNG SYRIAN, Do not stay here. Princess,
I beseech you.

634

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

SALOMfi. It is his eyes above all that are ter-
rible. They are like black holes burned by torches
in a tapestry of Tyre. They are like the black
caverns of Egypt in which the dragons make their
lairs. They are like black lakes troubled by fan-
tastic moons. . . . Do you think he will speak again?

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Do not Stay here, Princess.
I pray you do not stay here.

SALOMfi. How wasted he is! He is like a thin
ivorj'^ statue. He is like an image of silver. I am
sure he is chaste as the moon is. He is like a
moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. I would look
closer at him. I must look at him closer.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princess! Princess!

JOKANAAN. Who is this woman who is looking
at me? I will not have her look at me. Wherefore
doth she look at me with her golden eyes, under
her gilded eyelids. I know not who she is. I do
not desire to know who she is. Bid her begone.
It is not to her that I would speak.

SALOMf. I am Salom^, daughter of Herodias,
Princess of Judaea.

JOKANAAN. Back ! daughter of Babylon ! Come
not near the chosen of the Lord. Thy mother
hath filled the earth with the wine of her iniqui-
ties, and the cry of her sinning hath come up even
to the ears of God.

SALOMt. Speak again, Jokanaan. Thy voice
is as music to mine ear.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Piincess! Princess! Princess!

SALOME. Speak again! Speaik again, Jokanaain,
and tell me what I must do.

SALOME

635

JOKANAAN. Daughter of Sodom, come not near
me! But cover thy face with a veil, and scatter
ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the desert
and seek out the Son of Man.

SALOMfi. Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as
beautiful as thou art, Jokanaan?

JOKANAAN. Get thee behind me! I hear in the
palace the beating of the wings of the angel of
death.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princess, I beseech thee to
go within.

JOKANAAN. Angel of the Lord God, what dost
thou here with thy sword? Whom seekest thou
in this palace? The day of him who shall die in a
robe of silver has not yet come.

salom£. Jokanaan!

JOKANAAN. Who speaketh?

SALOMfi. I am amorous of thy body, Jokanaan!
Thy body is white like the lilies of a field that the
mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white
like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judasa,
and come down into the valleys. The roses in the
garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as
thy body. Neither the roses of the garden of the
Queen of Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen
of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light
on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she
lies on the breast of the sea. . . . There is nothing
in the world so white as thy body. Suffer me to
touch thy body.

JOKANAAN. Back! daughter of Babylon! By
woman came evil into the world. Speak not to

336

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

me. I will not listen to thee. I listen but to the
voice of the Lord God.

SALOMfi. Thy body is hideous. It is like the
body of a leper. It is like a plastered wall where
vipers have crawled; like a plastered wall where
the scorpions have made their nest. It is like a
whitened sepulchre full of loathsome things. It
is horrible, thy body is horrible. It is thy hair
that I am enamoured of, Jokanaan. Thy hair is
like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black
grapes that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in
the land of the Edomites. Thy hair is like the
cedars of Lebanon, like the great cedars of Leb-
anon that give their shade to the lions and to the
robbers who would hide them by day. The long
black nights, when the moon hides her face, when
the stars are afraid, are not so black as thy hair.
The silence that dwells in the forest is not so
black. There is nothing in the world that is so
black as thy hair Suffer me to touch thy hair.

JOKANAAN. Back, daughter of Sodom! Touch
me not. Profane not the temple of the Lord God.

SALOMfi. Thy hair is horrible. It is covered
with mire and dust. It is like a knot of serpents
coiled round thy neck. I love not thy hair. . . .
It is thy mouth that I desire, Jokanaan. Thy
mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory.
It is like a pomegranate cut in twain with a knife
of ivory. The pomegranate-flowers that blossom
in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses,
are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that
herald the approach of kings, and make afraid the

SALOME

637

enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than
the feet of the doves who inhabit the temples and
are fed by the priests. It is redder than the feet
of him who cometh from a forest where he hath
slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth
is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in
the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep
for the kings! ... It is like the vermilion that
the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the ver-
milion that the kings take from them. It is like
the bow of the King of the Persians, that is painted
with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There
is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth. . . ,
Suffer me to kiss thy mouth.

JOKANAAN. Never! daughter of Babylonl
Daughter of Sodom! Never!

SALOMfi. I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I
will kiss thy mouth.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princess, Princcss, thou
who art like a garden of myrrh, thou who art the
dove of all doves, look not at this man, look not
at him! Do not speak such words to him. I can-
not endure it. . . . Princess, do not speak these
things.

salomE. I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Ah! [He Mils himself and
falls between salomE and jokanaan.]

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. The young Syrian has
slain himself! The young captain has slain him-
self! He has slain himself who was my friend!
I gave him a little box of perfumes and ear-rings
wrought in silver, and now he has killed himself!

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

Ah, did he not say that some misfortime would
happen? I too said it, and it has come to pass.
Well I knew that the moon was seeking a dead
thing, but I knew not that it was he whom she
sought. Ah I why did I not hide him from the
moon? If I had hidden him in a cavern sne would
not have seen him.

FiEST SOLDIER. Princess, the young captain has
just slain himself.

SALOMfi. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.

JOKANAAN. Art thou not afraid, daughter of
Herodias? Did I not tell thee that I had heard
in the palace the beating of the wings of the angel
of death, and hath he not come, the angel of death?

SALOMfi. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth.

JOKANAAN. Daughter of adultery, there is but
one who can save thee, it is He of whom I spake.
Go seek Him. He is in a boat on the sea of Gali-
lee, and He talketh with His disciples. Kneel
down on the shore of the sea, and call xmto Him
by His name. When He cometh to thee (and to
all who call on Him He cometh), bow thyself at
His feet and ask of Him the remission of thy sins.

SALOMfi. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth.

JOKANAAN. Cimsed be thou! daughter of an
incestuous mother, be thou accursed!

SALOMfi. I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.

JOKANAAN. I will not look at thee, thou art
accursed, Salom^, thou art accursed. [He goes
down into the cistern.]

salom£. I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan; I
will kiss thy mouth.

SALOME

639

FIRST SOLDIER. Wc iDust bear away the body
to another place. The Tetrarch does not care to
see dead bodies, save the bodies of those whom he
himself has slain.

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. He was my brother,
and nearer to me than a brother. I gave him a
little box full of perfumes, and a ring of agate that
he wore always on his hand. In the evening we
were wont to walk by the river, and among the
almond trees, and he used to tell me of the things
of his country. He spake ever very low. The
sound of his voice was like the sound of the flute,
of one who playeth upon the flute. Also he had
much joy to gaze at himself in the river. I used
to reproach him for that.

SECOND SOLDIER. You are right; we must hide
the body. The Tetrarch must not see it.

FIRST SOLDIER. The Tetrarch will not come to
this place. He never comes on the terrace.
He is too much afraid of the prophet.

[Enter herod, herodias, and all the Court.]

HEROD. Where is Salom^? Where is the Prin-
cess? Why did she not return to the banquet as
I commanded her? Ah! there she is!

HERODIAS. You must not look at her! You
are always looking at her!

HEROD. The moon has a strange look to-night.
Has she not a strange look? She is like a mad
woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers. She
is naked, too. She is quite naked. The clouds
are seeking to clothe her nakedness, but she will
not let them. She shows herself naked in the

640

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

sky. She reels through the clouds like a drunken
woman. ... I am sure she is looking for lovers.
Does she not reel like a drunken woman? She is
like a mad woman, is she not?

HEBODIAS. No; the moon is like the moon,
that is all. Let us go within. . . . We have
nothing to do here.

HEROD. I will stay here! Manasseh, lay car-
pets there. Light torches, bring forth the ivory
table, and the tables of jasper. The air here is
sweet. I will drink more wine with my guests.
We must show all honours to the ambassadors of
Caesar.

HERODiAS. It is not because of them that you
remain.

HEROD. Yes; the air is very sweet. Come,
Herodias, our guests await us. Ah !I have slipped I
1 have slipped in blood ! It is an ill omen. Where-
fore is there blood here? . . . and this body, what
does this body here? Think you I am like the
King of Egypt, who gives no feast to his guests
but that he shows them a corpse? Whose is it?
I will not look on it.

FIRST SOLDIER. It is our Captain, sire. He is
the young Syrian whom you made captain of the
guard but three days gone.

HEROD. I issued no order that he should be slain.

SECOND SOLDIER. He slew himself, sire.

HEROD. For what reason? I had made him
captain of my guard.

SECOND SOLDIER. We do not know, sire. But
with his own hand he slew himself.

SALOME

641

HEROD. That seems strange to me. I had
thought it was but the Roman philosophers who
slew themselves. Is it not true, Tigellinus, that
the philosophers at Rome slay themselves?

TIGELLINUS. There be some who slay them-
selves, sire. They are the Stoics. The Stoics are
people of no cultivation. They are ridiculous
people. I myself regard them as being perfectly
ridiculous.

HEROD. I also. It is ridiculous to kill one-
self.

TIGELLINUS. Everybody at Rome laughs at
them. The Emperor has written a satire against
them. It is recited everywhere.

HEROD. Ah! he has written a satire against
them? Caesar is wonderful. He can do every-
thing. ... It is strange that the young Syrian
has slain himself. I am sorry he has slain him-
self. I am very sorry; for he was fair to look
upon. He was even very fair. He had very
languorous eyes. I remember that I saw that he
looked languorously at Salom^. Truly, I thought
he looked too much at her.

HERODIAS. There are others who look too much
at her.

HEROD. His father was a king. I drove him
from his kingdom. And of his mother, who was
a queen, you made a slave — Herodias. So he was
here as my guest, as it were, and for that reason
I made him my captain. I am sorry he is dead.
Ho! why have you left the body here? I will not
look at it — away with it! [They take away the

642

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

body.] It is cold here. There is a wind blowing.
Is there not a wind blowing?

HEBODIAS. No; there is no wind.

HEROD. I tell you there is a wind that blows.
. . . And I hear in the air something that is like
the beating of wings, like the beating of vast
wings. Do you not hear it?

HERODIAS. I hear nothing.

HEROD. I hear it no longer. But I heard it.
It was the blowing of the wind. It has passed
away. But no, I hear it again. Do you not hear
it? It is just like the beating of wings.

HERODIAS. I tell you there is nothing. You are
ill. Let us go within.

HEROD. I am not ill. It is your daughter who is
sick to death. Never have I seen her so pale.

HERODIAS. I have told you not to look at her.

HEROD. Pour me forth wine. [Wine is brought.]
Salom^, come drink a little wine with me. I have
here a wine that is exquisite. Caesar himself sent
it me. Dip into it thy little red lips, that I may
drain the cup.

SALOMfi. I am not thirsty, Tetrarch.

HEROD. You hear how she answers me, this
daughter of yours?

HERODIAS. She does right. Why are you al-
ways gazing at her?

HEROD. Bring me ripe fruits. [Fruits are
brought.] Salom6, come and eat fruits with me.
I love to see in a fruit the mark of thy little teeth.
Bite but a little of this fruit that I may eat what
is left.

SALOME

643

SALOMfi. I am not hungry, Tetrarch.

HEEOD [To HERODiAS]. You See how you have
brought up this daughter of yours.

HERODIAS. My daughter and I come of a royal
race. As for thee, thy father was a camel driver!
He was a thief and a robber to boot!

HEROD. Thou liest!

HERODIAS. Thou knowest well that it is true.

HEROD. Salom6, come and sit next to me. I
will give thee the throne of thy mother.

salom£. I am not tired, Tetrarch.

HERODIAS. You See in what regard she holds
you.

HEROD. Bring me — what is it that I desire?
I forget. Ah! ah! I remember.

THE VOICE OP JOKANAAN. Behold the time is
come! That which I foretold has come to pass.
The day that I spoke of is at hand.

HERODIAS. Bid him be silent. I will not listen
to his voice. This man is for ever hurling insults
against me.

HEROD. He has said nothing against you. Be-
sides, he is a very great prophet.

HERODIAS. I do not believe in prophets. Can a
man tell what will come to pass? No man knows
it. Also he is for ever insulting me. But I think
you are afraid of him. ... I know well that you
are afraid of him.

HEROD. I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of
no man.

HERODIAS. I tell you, you are afraid of him.
If you are not afraid of him why do you not de-

644

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

liver him to the Jews who for these six months
past have been clamouring for him?

A JEW. Truly, my lord, it were better to de-
liver him into our hands.

HEROD. Enough on this subject. I have al-
ready given you my answer. I will not deliver
him into your hands. He is a holy man. : He is a
man who has seen God.

A JEW. That cannot be. There is no man who
hath seen God since the prophet Elias. He is
the last man who saw God face to face. In these
days God doth not show Himself. God hideth
Himself. Therefore great evils have come upon
the land.

ANOTHER JEW. Verily, no man knoweth if Elias
the prophet did indeed see God. Peradventure
it was but the shadow of God that he saw.

A THIRD JEW. God is at no time hidden. He
showeth Himself at all times and in all places.
God is in what is evil even as He is in what is
good.

A FOURTH JEW. Thou sliouldst not say that.
It is a very dangerous doctrine. It is a doctrine
that cometh from Alexandria, where men teach
the philosophy of the Greeks. And the Greeks
are Gentiles; They are not even circumcised.

A FIFTH JEW. No One can tell how God work-
eth. His ways are very dark. It may be that
the things which we call evil are good, and that
the things which we call good are evil. There is
no knowledge of any thing. We can but bow our
heads to His will, for God is very strong. He

SALOMfi

645

breaketh in pieces the strong together with the
weak, for He regardeth not any man.

FIRST JEW. Thou speakest truly. Verily God
is terrible; He breaketh in pieces the strong and
the weak as a man breaks corn in a mortar. But
as for man, he hath never seen God. No man hath
seen God since the prophet Elias.

HERODIAS. Make them be silent. They weaiy
me.

HEROD. But I have heard it said that Jokanaan
is in very truth your prophet Elias.

THE JEW. That cannot be. It is more than
three hundred years since the days of the prophet
Elias.

HEROD. There be some who say that this man
is Elias the prophet.

A NAZARENE. I am Sure that he is Elias the
prophet.

THE JEW. Nay, but he is not Elias the prophet.

THE VOICE OP JOKANAAN. Behold the day is at
hand, the day of the Lord, and I hear upon the
mountains the feet of Him who shall be the
Saviour of the world.

HEROD. What does that mean? The Saviour
of the world?

TiGELLiNUS. It is a title that Caesar adopts.

HEROD. But Caesar is not coming into Judaea.
Only yesterday I received letters from Rome.
They contained nothing concerning this matter.
And you, Tigellinus, who were at Rome during
the winter, you heard nothing concerning this
matter, did you?

646

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

TiGELLiNUS. Sire, I heard nothing concerning
the matter. I was explaining the title. It is one
of Caesar’s titles.

HEBOD. But Caesar cannot come. He is too
gouty. They say that his feet are like the feet of
an elephant. Also there are reasons of State.
He who leaves Rome loses Rome. He will not
come. Howbeit, Caesar is lord, he will come if
such be his pleasme. Nevertheless, I think he
will not come.

FIRST NAZARENE. It was not concerning Caesar
that the prophet spake these words, sire.

HEROD. How? — it was not concerning Caesar?

FIRST NAZARENE. No, my lord.

HEROD. — Concerning whom then did he speak?

FIRST NAZARENE. Concerning Messias who has
come.

A JEW. Messiah hath not come.

FIRST NAZARENE. He hath come, and every-
where He worketh miracles.

HERODiAS. Ho! ho! miracles! I do not believe
in miracles. I have seen too many. [To the Page.]
My fan.

FIRST NAZARENE. This man worketh true
miracles. Thus, at a marriage which took place
in a little town of Galilee, a town of some im-
portance, He changed water into wine. Certain
persons who were present related it to me. Also
He healed two lepers that were seated before the
Gate of Capernaum simply by touching them.

SECOND NAZARENE. Nay, it was blind men
that he healed at Capernaum.

SALOME

647

FIRST NAZARENE. Nay; they were lepers. But
He hath healed blind people also, and He was
seen on a mountain talking with angels.

A SADDUCEE. Angcls do not exist.

A PHARISEE. Angels exist, but I do not believe
that this Man hath talked with them.

FIRST NAZARENE. He was sccn by a great mul-
titude of people talking with angels.

HERODiAS. How these men weaiy me! They
are ridiculous! [To the Page.] Well! my fan!
[The Page gives her the fan.] You have a dreamer’s
look; you must not dream. It is only sick people
who dream. [S/?e strikes the Page with her fan.]

SECOND NAZARENE. There is also the miracle
of the daughter of Jairus.

FIRST NAZARENE. Yea, that is sure. No man
can gainsay it.

HERODIAS. These men are mad. They have
looked too long on the moon. Command them
to be silent.

HEROD. What is this miracle of the daughter
of Jairus?

FIRST NAZARENE. The daughter of Jairus was
dead. This Man raised her from the dead.

HEROD. How! He raises people from the dead?

FIRST NAZARENE. Yea, sire. He raiseth the
dead.

HEROD. I do not wish Him to do that, I for-
bid Him to do that. I suffer no man to raise the
dead. This Man must be found and told that I
forbid Him to raise the dead. Where is this Man
at present?

648

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

SECOND NAZARENE. He is in every place, my
lord, but it is hard to find Him.

FIRST NAZARENE. It is Said that He is now in
Samaria.

A JEW. It is easy to see that this is not Messias,
if He is in Samaria. It is not to the Samaritans
that Messias shall come. The Samaritans are ac-
cursed. They bring no offerings to the Temple.

SECOND NAZARENE. He left Samaria a few days
since. I think that at the present moment He is
in the neighbourhood of Jerusalem.

FIRST NAZARENE. No; he is not there. I have
just come from Jerusalem. For two months they
have had no tidings of Him.

HEROD. No matter! But let them find Him,
and tell Him, thus saith Herod the King, ‘ I will
not suffer Thee to raise the dead!’ To change
water into wine, to heal the lepers and the blind.

... He may do these things if He will. I say
nothing against these things. In truth I hold it a
kindly deed to heal a leper. But no man shall raise
the dead. It would be terrible if the dead came back.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. Ah! the wanton one!
The harlot! Ah! the daughter of Babylon with
her golden eyes and her gilded eyelids! Thus
saith the Lord God, Let there come up against
her a multitude of men. Let the people take
stones and stone her. . . .

HERODIAS. Command him to be silent.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. Let the captains of
the hosts pierce her with their swords, let them
crush her beneath their shields.

SALOME

649

HERODiAS. Nay, but it is infamous.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. It is thuS that I wUl
wipe out all wickedness from the earth, and that
all women shall learn not to imitate her abomina-
tions.

HERODIAS. You hear what he says against
me? You suffer him to revile her who is your wife?

HEROD. He did not speak your name.

HERODIAS. What does that matter? You know
well that it is I whom he seeks to revile. And I
am your wife, am I not?

HEROD. Of a truth, dear and noble Herodias,
you are my wife, and before that you were the
wife of my brother.

HERODIAS. It was thou didst snatch me from
his arms.

HEROD. Of a truth I was stronger than he was.

. . . But let us not talk of that matter. I do
not desire to talk of it. It is the cause of the ter-
rible words that the prophet has spoken. Per-
adventure on account of it a misfortune will come.
Let us not speak of this matter. Noble Herodias,
we arc not mindful of our guests. Fill thou my
cup, my well-beloved. Ho ! fill with wine the great
goblets of silver, and the great goblets of glass.
I will drink to Caesar. There are Romans here,
we must drink to Caesar.

ALL. Caesar! Caesar!

HEROD. Do you not see your daughter, how
pale she is?

HERODIAS. What is that to you if she be pale
or not?

650

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

HEBOD. Never have I seen her so pale.

HEKODiAS. You must not look at her.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. In that day the sun
shall become black like sackcloth of hair, and the
moon shall become like blood, and the stars of
the heaven shall fall upon the earth like unripe figs
that fall from the fig-tree, and the kings of the
earth shall be afraid.

HEKODIAS. Ah! Ah! I should like to see that
day of which he speaks, when the moon shall be-
come like blood, and when the stars shall fall
upon the earth like unripe figs. This prophet
talks like a drunken man . . . but I cannot suffer
the sound of his voice. I hate his voice. Com-
mand him to be silent. /

HEROD. I will not. I cannot understand what
it is that he saith, but it may be an omen.

HEKODIAS. I do not belicvc in omens. He
speaks like a drunken man.

HEROD. It may be he is drunk with the wine
of God.

HEKODIAS. What wine is that, the wine of
God? From what vineyards is it gathered? In
what wine-press may one find it?

HEKOD [From this point he looks all the while at
SALOMfi]. Tigellinus, when you were at Rome of
late, did the Emperor speak with you on the
subject of . . .?

TIGELLINUS. On what subject, my Lord?

HEBOD. On what subject? Ah! I asked you a
question, did I not? I have forgotten what I
would have asked you.

SALOMfi

651

HERODiAS. You are looking again at my daugh-
ter. You must not look at her. I have already
said so.

HEROD. You say nothing else.

HERODIAS. I say it again.

HEROD. And that restoration of the Temple
about which they have talked so much, will any-
thing be done? They say the veil of the Sanctuary
has disappeared, do they not?

HERODIAS. It was thyself didst steal it. Thou
speakest at random and without wit. I will not
stay here. Let us go within.

HEROD. Dance for me, Salom^.

HERODIAS. I will not have her dance.

SALOMfi. I have no desire to dance, Tetrarch.

HEROD. Salom^, daughter of Herodias, dance
for me.

HERODIAS. Peace! let her alone.

HEROD. I command thee to dance, Salom6.

SALOMfi. I will not dance, Tetrarch.

HERODIAS [Laughing]. You see how she obeys
you.

HEROD. What is it to me whether she dance or
not? It is naught to me. To-night I am happy, I
am exceeding happy. Never have I been so happy.

FIRST SOLDIER. The Tetrarch has a sombre
look. Has he not a sombre look?

SECOND SOLDIER. Yes, he has a sombre look.

HEROD. Wherefore should I not be happy?
Ca)sar, who is lord of the world, Caesar, who is
lord of all things, loves me well. He has just sent
me most precious gifts. Also he has promised me

652

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

to summon to Rome the King of Cappadocia,
who is my enemy. It may be that at Rome he will
crucify him, for he is able to do all things that
he has a mind to. Verily, Cajsar is lord. There-
fore I do well to bo happy. There is nothing in
the world that can mar my happiness.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. He shall be seated
on his throne. He shall be clothed in scarlet and
purple. In his hand he shall bear a golden cup
full of his blasphemies. And the angel of the Lord
shall smite him. He shall be eaten of worms.

HEHODIAS. You hear what he says about you.
He says that you will be eaten of worms.

HEEOD. It is not of me that he speaks. He
speaks never against me. It is of the King of
Cappadocia that he speaks; the King of Cappa-
docia who is mine enemy. It is he who shall be
eaten of worms. It is not I. Never has he spoken
word against me, this prophet, save that I sinned
in taking to wife tlie wife of my brother. It may
be he is right. For, of a truth, you are sterile.

HEEODIAS. I am sterile, I? You say that, you
that are ever looking at my daughter, you that
would have her dance for your pleasure? You
speak as a fool. I have borne a child. You have
gotten no child, no, not on one of your slaves.
It is you who are sterile, not I.

HEEOD. Peace, woman I I say that you are
sterile. You have borne me no child, and the
prophet says that our marriage is not a true
marriage. He says that it is a marriage of incest,
a marriage that will bring evils. ... I fear he is

SALOMfi

653

right ; I am sure that he is right. I would be happy
at this. Of a truth, I am happy. There is nothing
I lack.

HEEODiAS. I am glad you are of so fair a hu-
mour to-night. It is not your custom. But it is
late. Let us go within. Do not forget that we
hunt at sunrise. All honours must be shown to
Ca3sar’s ambassadors, must they not?

SECOND SOLDIER. Thc Tetrarch has a sombre
look.

FIRST SOLDIER. Yes, he has a sombre look.

HEROD. Salom^, Salom^, dance for me. I pray
thee dance for me. I am sad to-night. Yes; I am
passing sad to-night. When I came hither I
slipped in blood, which is an evil omen; also I
heard in the air a beating of wings, a beating of
giant wings. I cannot tell what they mean. . . .
I am sad to-night. Therefore dance for me.
Dance for me, Salom^, I beseech thee. If thou
dancest for me thou mayest ask of me what thou
wilt, and I will give it thee, even unto the half of
my kingdom.

SALOMfi [Rising], Will you indeed give me what-
soever I shall ask of thee, Tetrarch?

HBRODIAS. Do not dance, my daughter.

HEROD. Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, even
unto the half of my kingdom.

SALOMfi. You swear it, Tetrarch?

HEROD. I swear it, Salomd.

HERODiAS. Do not dance, my daughter.

SALOMfi. By what will you swear this thing,
Tetrarch?

654

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

HEHOD. By my life, by my crown, by my gods.
Whatsoever thou shalt desire I will give it thee
even to the half of my kingdom, if thou wilt but
dance for me. 0 Salome, Salome, dance for me !
salom£. You have sworn an oath, Tetrarch.
HEROD. I have sworn an oath.

HERODIAS. My daughter, do not dance.

HEROD. Even to the half of my kingdom. Thou
wilt be passing fair as a queen, Salom^, if it please
thee to ask for the half of my kingdom. Will she
not be fair as a queen? Ah ! it is cold here 1 There
is an icy wind, and I hear . . . wherefore do I
hear in the air this beating of wings? Ah! one
might fancy a huge black bird that hovers over
the terrace. Why can I not see it, this bird? The
beat of its wings is terrible. The breath of the
wind of its wings is terrible. It is a chill wind.
Nay, but it is not cold, it is hot. I am choking.
Pour water on my hands. Give me snow to cat.
Loosen my mantle. Quick! quick! loosen my
mantle. Nay, but leave it. It is my garland
that hurts me, my garland of roses. The flowers
are like fire. They have burned my forehead.
[He tears the meath from his head and throws it on
the table.] Ah! I can breathe now. How red those
petals are! They are like stains of blood on the
cloth. That does not matter. It is not wise to
find symbols in everything that one sees. It
makes life too full of terrors. It were better to
say that stains of blood are as lovely as rose petals.
It were better far to say that. . . . But we will not
speak of this. Now I am happy. I am passing

SALOMfi

655

happy. Have I not the right to be happy? Your
daughter is going to dance for me. Wilt thou
not dance for me, Salom6? Thou hast promised
to dance for me.

HERODiAS. I will not have her dance.

SALOMfi. I will dance for you, Tetrarch.

HEROD. You hear what your daughter says.
She is going to dance for me. Thou doest well to
dance for me, Salomd. And when thou hast
danced for me, forget not to ask of me whatsoever
thou hast a mind to ask. Whatsoever thou shalt
desire I will give it thee, even to the half of my
kingdom. I have sworn it, have I not?

SALOM^. Thou hast sworn it, Tetrarch.

HEROD. And I have never broken my word.
I am not of those who break their oaths. I know
not how to lie. I am the slave of my word, and
my word is the word of a king. The King of Cap-
padocia had ever a lying tongue, but he is no true
king. He is a coward. Also he owes me money
that he will not repay. He has even insulted my
ambassadors. He has spoken words that were
wounding. But Caesar will cnicify him when he
comes to Rome. I know that Caesar will crucify
him. And if he crucify him not, yet will he die,
being eaten of worms. The prophet has proph-
esied it. Well ! wherefore dost thou tarry, Salom^?

SALOMfi. I am waiting until my slaves bring
perfumes to me and the seven veils, and take from
off my feet my sandals. [Slaves bring perfumes and
the seven veils, and take off the sandals of salom^.]

HEROD. Ah, thou art to dance with naked feet.

656

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

’Tis well! ’Tis well. Thy little feet will be like
white doves. They will be like little white flowers
that dance upon the trees. . . . No, no, she is
going to dance on blood. There is blood spilt on
the ground. She must not dance on blood. It
were an evil omen.

HERODiAS. What is it to thee if she dance on
blood? Thou hast waded deep enough in it. . . .

HEROD. What is it to me? Ah! look at the
moon ! She has become red. She has become red
as blood. All ! the prophet prophesied truly. He
prophesied that the moon would become as blood.
Did he not prophesy it? All of ye heard him
prophesying it. And now the moon has become
as blood. Do ye not sec it?

HERODIAS. Oh, yes, I see it well, and the stars
are falling like unripe figs, are they not? and the
sun is becoming black like sackcloth of hair, and
the kings of the earth are. afraid. That at least
one can see. The prophet is justified of his words
in that at least, for tnily the kings of the earth
are afraid. . . . Lot us go within. You arc sick.
They will say at liomc that you are mad. Let
us go within, I tell you.

THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN. Who is this who eom-
eth from Edom, who is this who cometh from
Bozra, whose raiment is dyed with purple, who
shineth in the beauty of his garments, who walketh
mighty in his greatness? Wherefore is thy raiment
stained with scarlet?

HERODIAS. Let us go within. The voice of that
man maddens me. I will not have my daughter

SALOMfi

657

dance while he is continually crying out. I will
not have her dance while you look at her in this
fashion. In a word, I will not have her dance.

HEROD. Do not rise, my wife, my queen, it will
avail thee nothing. I will not go within till she
hath danced. Dance, Salome, dance for me.

HERODIAS. Do not dance, my daughter.

SALOMfi. I am ready, Tetrarch.

[SALOMfi dances the dance of the seven veils.]

HEROD. Ah! wonderful! wonderful! You see
that she has danced for me, your daughter. Come
near, Salom*^, come near, that I may give thee
thy fee. Ah! I pay a royal price to those who
dance for my pleasure. I will pay thee royally.
I will give thee whatsoever thy soul desireth.
What wouldst thou have? Speak.

SALOMfi [Kneeling]. 1 would that they presently
bring me in a silver charger . . .

HEROD [Laughmg]. In a silver charger? Surely
yes, in a silver charger. She is charming, is she
not? What is it thou wouldst have in a silver
charger, 0 sweet and fair Salome, thou art fairer
than all the daughters of Judaea? What wouldst
thou have them bring thee in a silver charger?
Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, thou shalt re-
ceive it. My treasures belong to thee. What is
it that thou wouldst have, Salom^?

SALOMfi [Rising]. The head of Jokanaan.

HERODIAS. Ah! that is well said, my daughter.

HEROD. No, no!

HERODIAS. That is well said, my daughter.

HEROD. No, no, Salom^. It is not that thou

m

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

desirest. Do not listen to thy mother’s voice. She
is ever giving thee evil counsel. Do not heed her.

SALOMfi. It is not my mother’s voice that I
heed. It is for mine own pleasure that I ask the
head of Jokanaan in a silver charger. You have
sworn an oath, Herod. Forget not that you have
sworn an oath.

HEHOD. I know it. I have sworn an oath by my
gods. I know it well. But I pray thee, Salomd,
ask of me something else. Ask of me the half of
my kingdom, and I will give it thee. But ask
not of me what thy lips have asked.

SALOMfi. I ask of you the head of Jokanaan.

HEROD. No, no, I will not give it thee.

SALOMfi. You have sworn an oath, Herod.

HERODiAS. Yes, you have sworn an oath.
Everybody heard you. You swore it before
everybody.

HEROD. Peace, woman! It is not to you I speak.

HERODIAS. My daughter has done well to ask
the head of Jokanaan. He has covered me with
insults. He has said unspeakable things against
me. One can see that she loves her mother well.
Do not yield, my daughter. He has sworn an
oath, he has sworn an oath.

HEROD. Peace! Speak not to me! . . . Salom6,
I pray thee be not stubborn. I have ever been
kind toward thee. I have ever loved thee. . . .
It may be that I have loved thee too much.
Therefore ask not this thing of me. This is a ter«
rible thing, an awful thing to ask of me. Surely,

I think thou art jesting. The head of a man that

SALOMfi

659

is cut from his body is ill to look upon, is it not?
It is not meet that the eyes of a virgin should look
upon such a thing. What pleasme couldst thou
have in it? There is no pleasure that thou
couldst have in it. No, no, it is not that thou
desirest. Hearken to me. I have an emerald, a
great emerald, thou canst see that which passeth
afar off. Csesar himself carries such an emerald
when he goes to the circus. But my emerald is
the larger. I know well that it is the larger. It
is the largest emerald in the whole world. Thou
wilt take that, wilt thou not? Ask it of me and I
will give it thee.

SALOM^. I demand the head of Jokanaan.

HEKOD. Thou art not listening. Thou art not
listening. Suffer me to speak, Salom^.

SALOMfi. The head of Jokanaan.

HEROD. No, no, thou wouldst not have that.
Thou sayest that but to trouble me, because I
have looked at thee and ceased not this night. It
is true, I have looked at thee and ceased not this
night. Thy beauty has troubled me. Thy beauty
has grievously troubled me, and I have looked at
thee over-much. Nay, but I will look at thee no
more. One should not look at anything. Neither
at things, nor at people should one look. Only
in mirrors is it well to look, for mirrors do but

show us masks. Oh ! oh ! bring wine ! I thirst

Salom6, Salom^, let us be as friends. Bethink
thee. ... Ah! what would I say? Wliat was’t?
Ah! I remember it! . . . Salom6 — ^nay but come
nearer to me ; I fear thou wilt not hear my words —

660

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

Salom^, thou knowest my white peacocks, my
beautiful white peacocks, that walk in the garden
between the myrtles and the tall cypress trees.
Their beaks are gilded with gold and the grains
that they eat arc smeared with gold, and their
feet are stained with purple. When they cry out
the rain comes, and the moon shows herself in the
heavens when they spread their tails. Two by
two they walk between the cypress trees and the
black myrtles, and each has a slave to tend it.
Sometimes they fly across the trees, and anon
they crouch in the grass, and round the pools of
the water. There are not in all the world birds
so wonderful. I know that Ca!sar himself has no
birds so fair as my birds. I will give thee fifty of
my peacocks. They will follow thee whithersoever
thou goest, and in the midst of them thou wilt be
like unto the moon in the midst of a gi’eat white
cloud. ... I will give them to thee all. I have but
a hundred, and in the whole world there is no
king who has peacocks like unto my peacocks.
But I will give them all to thee. Only thou must
loose me from my oath, and must not ask of me
that which thy lips have asked of me. [He
empties the cup of wine.]

SALOMfi. Give me the head of Jokanaan.

HEEODiAS. Well said, my daughter! As for
you, you are ridiculous with your peacocks.

HEEOD. Ah! thou art not listening to me. Be
calm. As for me, am I not calm? I am altogether
calm. Listen. I have jewels hidden in this place
— ^jewels that thy mother even has never seen;

SALOME

661

jewels that are marvellous to look at. I have a
collar of pearls, set in four rows. They are like
unto moons chained with rays of silver. They are
even as half a hundred moons caught in a golden
net. On the ivory breast of a queen they have
rested. Thou shalt be as fair as a queen when
thou wcarest them. I have amethysts of two
kinds, one that is black like wine, and one that
is red like wine that one has coloured with water.
I have topazes, yellow as are the eyes of tigers,
and topazes that arc pink as the eyes of a wood-
pigeon, and green topazes that are as the eyes of
cats. I have opals that burn always, with a flame
that is cold as ice, opals that make sad men’s
minds, and are afraid of tlie shadows. I have
onyxes like the eyeballs of a dead woman. I have
moonstones that change when the moon changes,
and are wan when they sec the sun. I have sap-
phires big like eggs, and as blue as blue flowers.
The sea wanders within them and the moon comes
never to trouble the blue of their waves. I have
chrysolites and beryls and chrysoprases and
rubies. I have sardonyx and hyacinth stones,
and stones of chalcedony, and I will give them all
unto thee, all, and other things will I add to them.
The King of the Indies has but even now sent me
four fans fashioned from the feathers of parrots
and the King of Numidia a garment of ostrich
feathers. I have a crystal, into which it is not
lawful for a woman to look, nor may young men
behold it until they have been beaten with rods.
In a coffer of nacre I have three wondrous tur-

662

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

quoises. He who wears them on his forehead can
imagine things which are not, and he who carries
them in his hand can turn the fruitful woman into
a woman that is barren. These are great treasures
above all price. But this is not all. In an ebony
coffer I have two cups, amber, that are like apples
of pure gold. If an enemy pour poison into these
cups they become like apples of silver. In a coffer
incrusted with amber I have sandals incrusted
with glass. I have mantles that have been
brought from the land of the Seres, and bracelets
decked about with carbuncles and with jade that
come from the city of Euphrates. . • . What de-
sirest thou more than this, Salome'? Tell me the
thing that thou dcsirest, and I will give it thee.
All that thou askest I will give thee, save one
thing only. I will give thee all that is mine, save
only the head of one man. I will give thee the
mantle of the high priest. I will give thee the
veil of the sanctuary.

THE JEWS. Oh! oh!

SALOMfi. Give me the head of Jokanaan.

HEROD [Sinking back in his seat]. Let her be
given what she asks! Of a truth she is her moth-
er’s child! [The first Soldier approaches, hero-
mas draws from the hand of the Tetrarch the ring of
death, and gives it to the Soldier, who straightway
bears it to the Executioner. The Executioner looks
scared.] Who has taken my ring? There was a
ring on my right hand. Who has drunk my wine?
There was wine in my cup. It was full of wine.
Someone has drunk it! Oh! surely some evil will

SALOME

663

befall some one. [The Executioner goes down into
the cistern.] Ah! Wherefore did I give my oath?
Hereafter let no king swear an oath. If he keep it
not, it is terrible, and if he keep it, it is terrible
also.

HEBODiAS. My daughter has done well.

irEBOD. I am sure that some misfortune will
happen.

SALOMfi [She leans over the cistern and listens].
There is no sound. I hear nothing. Why does
he not cry out, this man? Ah ! if any man sought
to kill me, I would cry out, I would struggle, I
would not suffer. . . . Strike, strike, Naaman,
strike, I tell you. . . . No, I hear nothing. There
is a silence, a terrible silence. Ah! something has
fallen upon the ground. I heard something fall.
He is afraid, this slave. He is a coward, this
slave! Let soldiers be sent. [S/ie sees the Page of
HEBODIAS and addresses him.] Come thither, thou
wert the friend of him who is dead, wert thou not?
Well, I tell thee, there are not dead men enough.
Go to the soldiers and bid them go down and
bring me the thing I ask, the thing the Tetrarch
has promised me, the thing that is mine. [The
Page recoils. She turns to the soldiers.] Hither,
ye soldiers. Get ye down into this cistern and
bring me the head of this man. Tetrarch,
Tetrarch, command your soldiers that they bring
me the head of Jokanaan.

[A huge black arm, the arm of the Executioner,
comes forth from the cistern, bearing on a silver
shield the head of jokanaan. salom^ seizes it.

664

THE PLAYS OP OSCAR WILDE

HEEOB hides his face tvith his cloak, herodias
smiles and fans herself. The Nazarenes fall on
their knees and begin to pray.]

Ah! thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy
mouth, Jokanaan. Well, I will kiss it now. I will
bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit.
Yes, I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I said it;
did I not say it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it
now. . . . But, wherefore dost thou not look at
me, Jokanaan? Thine eyes that were so terrible,
so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. Where-
fore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up
thine eyelids, Jokanaan! Wherefore dost thou
not look at me? Art thou afraid of me, Jo-
kanaan, that thou wilt not look at me? . . . And
thy tongue, that was like a red snake darting
poison, it moves no more, it speaks no words,
Jokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom
upon me. It is strange, is it not? How is it that
the red viper stirs no longer? . . . Thou wouldst
have none of me, Jokanaan. Thou rejectedst me.
Thou didst speak evil words against me. Thou
didst bear thyself toward me as to a harlot, as
to a woman that is a wanton, to me, Salomd,
daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaja! Well,
I still live, but thou art dead, and thy head be-
longs to me. I can do with it what I will. I can
throw it to the dogs and to the birds of the air.
That which the dogs leave, the birds of the air
shall devour. . . . Ah, Jokanaan, thou wert, the
man that I loved alone among men. All other men
were hateful to me. But thou wert beautiful!

SALOMfi

665

Thy body was a column of ivory set upon feet
of silver. It was a garden full of doves and lilies
of silver. It was a tower of silver decked with
shields of ivory. There was nothing in the world
so white as thy body. There was nothing in the
world so black as thy hair. In the whole world
there was nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice
was a censer that scattered strange perfumes, and
when I looked on thee I heard a strange music.
Ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me, Joka-
naan? With the cloak of thine hands and with the
cloak of thy blasphemies thou didst hide thy face.
Thou didst put upon thine eyes the covering of
him who would see his God. Well, thou hast seen
thy God, Jokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never
see. If thou hadst seen me thou hadst loved me.
I saw thee, and I loved thee. Oh, how I loved
thee! I love thee yet, Jokanaan, I love only thee.
... I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry
for thy body; and neither wine nor apples can ap-
pease my desire. What shall I do now, Jokanaan?
Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench
my passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn
njp. I was a virgin, and thou didst take my virgin-
ity from me. I was chaste, and thou didst fill my
■ veins with fire. . . . Ah! ah! wherefore didst
thou not look at me? If thou hadst looked at me
thou hadst loved me. Well I know that thou
wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of love is
greater than the mystery of death.

HEBOD. She is monstrous, thy daughter, I tell
thee she is monstrous. In truth, what she has done

666

THE PLAYS OF OSCAR WILDE

is a great crime. I am sure that it is. A crime
against some unknown God.

HERODiAS. I am well pleased with my daughter.
She has done well. And I would stay here now.

HEROD. [Rising]. Ah! There speaks ray broth-
er’s wife! Come! I will not stay in this place.
Come, I tell thee. Surely some terrible thing will
befall. Manasseh, Issadar, Zias, put out the
torches. I will not look at things, I will not suffer
things to look at me. Put out the torches! Hide
the moon! Hide the stars! Let us hide ourselves
in oim palace, Herodias. I begin to be afraid.

[The slaves put out the torches. The stars disap-
pear. A great cloud crosses the moon and conceals it
completely. The stage becomes quite dark. The
Tetrarch begins to dimb the staircase.]

THE VOICE OF SALOMfi. Ah! I have kissed thy
mouth, Jokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth.
There was a bitter taste on my lips. Was it the
taste of blood? . . . Nay; but perchance it
was the taste of love. . . . They say that love
hath a bitter taste. . . , But what matter?
what matter? I have kissed thy mouth.

HEROD [Turning round and seeing SALOufi].
Kill that woman!

[The soldiers rush forward and crush benealh their
shields salom£, daughter of herodias, Princess of
Judaea.]

Curtain